My mom was all upset, once when she came home from the doctor. She was in a hospital johnny, she told me, and waiting to see her gastroenterologist. The gastroenterologist walked in gruffly, hrrumphed a few words and then, without saying anything, opened her johnny and started listening to her chest.

At that point my mother became indignant at the loss of dignity and told the gastroenterologist, in no uncertain terms, that he should unhand her and then she said something like, "My two sons are doctors and my husband is a doctor and they would NEVER exam a woman without asking permission first." As she told me this story, with her dander up, she continued, "Can you imagine the nerve of him?! You would never treat a patient like that."

I was silent. I can't lie to my mother or to my wife because my voice cracks when I do and then they know. Luckily, Mom changed the subject.

Hospitals aren't places for modesty. Patients are always running off to x-rays and colonoscopies, and my colleagues and I all vie to see them the moment they're in their room, rushing so that we can make it to the office without keeping those patients waiting. I am ashamed to admit that I don't always remember to knock. I have walked in too many times on a sweet little old lady who was stark naked in bed, bathing.

The worst thing for modesty is when someone gets intubated and put on a ventilator. Usually we induce a sort of coma, which is often necessary but not very dignified. And all their bodily functions are taken care of by nurses and doctors, from breathing and eating to bathing and voiding. We see all the moles and birth marks, all the tattoos and piercings. During my residency, there was a fellow who had the words "sweet" and "sour" tattooed over each of his areolae. Another guy, who was a "frequent flyer" because of his terrible lung disease, came in after being resuscitated by EMS. He was put on the ventilator, sedated, but we were a bit unnerved by the message he had tattooed on his chest. The tattoo said: "Do not resuscitate."

A few days after my mom told me about her doctor's visit, I knocked on the hospital room door of an 80-year-old woman. She said, "Come in" and was sitting up in bed, a lovely gray-haired woman with just her johnny over her torso, legs exposed. As I asked the usual battery of questions, I gathered the sheets at her feet and covered up her bare thighs, apologizing for barging in. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled: "Oh not at all. These legs have been admired by lots of men." Then she threw the sheets off her legs with a sort of flourish and said, "I used to be an exotic dancer."

I was a bit taken aback but smiled all the same. She caught my surprise. "What's the matter? Hard to picture this old gray-haired lady shakin' it?" she asked. She gave a sort of shake, and I'm not sure but I might have blushed a bit.