When Dr. Sam said, “You’ve got the prostate of a man half your age,” it was hard to keep from beaming. This must be how a woman feels when a complete stranger tells her she has a beautiful baby. Well, maybe not. Still, it was hard not to feel proud of my big, fat, beautiful prostate. It was like winning the Oscar. “I’d like to thank everyone who made this possible -- Mom and Dad for their genes, Sue for making me take all those antioxidants and especially all the little supplements.”

“Yes, that is one pretty prostate -- don’t you think so, class?” I heard murmurs of approval, some polite applause. Not beaming anymore. Not beaming at all. Here I am, exposed as person can possibly be, and there’s an audience? What was going on?

I was lying on my left side, looking at a wall of medical equipment, blood-pressure cuffs, those flashlights they stick in your ears, boxes of rubber gloves, a gallon plastic container for used needles.

I said, “I didn’t know this was a teaching hospital.”

“It’s not,” said Dr. Sam. “It’s my son’s seventh-grade class from St. Celia’s. Say ‘hello’ to Mr. Mullen, kids.”

“Hello, Mr. Mullen,” they said in unison.

“You’re their show-and-tell this week,” he said, as he pulled off his rubber gloves.