Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

…they serve him best. -John Milton

“How was your week, Doc?”

How was my week? Me? Little ol’ me? You want to know how my week was? Gee, thanks for asking! I’d love to tell you how my week was! But first - did you know that 99% of all Americans are not only willing but eager to talk about themselves? One can’t blame them, when asked how their week was, for setting down the scholarly journal they were perusing on the coffee table and turning to the questioner with a sparkle in their eyes before unloading the hebdomadal news report entitled “An In-depth Look at My Fascinating Life”. I may be wrong, but a closer look at someone’s fascinating life certainly beats some of the other entertainment choices offered in this modern world. Well, since you asked here’s the scoop:

It is with a long face that I begin by saying that my week was not off to what I would call an auspicious start - in fact, if I were a racehorse I would be petrified every time my owner loaded me into the trailer, if you know what I mean. I was suffering [suffering? rather melodramatic, n’est ce-pas? -Ed.] from mishaps and annoyances flung from all corners of the world. First my wireless keyboard died a cowardly death, without even a spark of defiance. Then before the last of the day’s efforts could be tossed into the hayloft a telemarketer slipped through the elaborate screening process my secretary uses to shield me from such scalawags. His offer sounded intriguing but I just couldn’t see myself taking a trip to Nigeria on such short notice. The next day was no better - between running late, spilling tea on my lab coat and hobbling around with a weak back (don’t ask me how long I’ve had it), I was in no mood for gratuitous checkout-line-type delays or other obstacles. Unfortunately the stars were aligned malignantly for this benign medico, for I had to dash over to the hospital for a bit of the act that insurance companies ascribe to anonymous individuals called “providers”. Part of my dashing and flitting about routine required that I ask a favor from a certain hospital employee, and I dreaded the encounter. For reasons known only to his Maker this individual was armed with not one but two of the most lethal personality traits ever designed to bring doctors to their knees: apathy and whatever word describes the polar opposite of bonhomie. Having suffered [that word again? Wah wah wah! -Ed.] silently through several previous collisions with him I sighed and made my request. I began to count the perforations on the ceiling tiles as I awaited his decision re: springing into action versus withdrawing into the bowels of the hospital. I regretted not bringing a racing form to help pass the time.

While waiting for the muttering and drawer-slamming to subside let me make a confession: some of us in the medical profession are rather impatient. This of course speeds up things like having one’s gallbladder removed, or getting to the point of an office visit, also known as the “He walked in and walked right out” appointment. Being guilty to the ninth degree of such restlessness I naturally burned with humiliation at the treatment I received from this worker but maintained a cool disposition, and eventually received the vital information. I exited stage right as softly as a mouse tiptoeing over Marie Antoinette’s coiffure.

This turned out to be a smart move.

As my week dragged on the end slowly floated into sight, like a passing ocean liner appearing to a shipwrecked beachcomber. I glanced at the final few patients left to see and read a comment placed next to the name of a new patient on the list: “hospital employee”.

What can be described as a perfect example of foreshadowing rocketed into the proximal ear and promptly out the distal, which in itself became a perfect example of what the psychologists call “obtuseness”. Not until I fox-trotted into the exam room did I realize who was waiting for me within.

Saints preserve us - it was him! My bete noire sat before me stricken with cancer, here to seek relief from none other than lil’ ol’ me! He had the same blank look on his face as when asked to perform some official duty, but this time when queried he responded with bland but complete sentences. The man whose mission in life it seemed was to torment me was now on my exam table having his enlarged liver massaged and measured like a butcher preparing a choice cut of beef. He left our visit with this remark: “I know you can help me. I am ready to whip this.”

Before I get accused of the cardinal sin of schaudenfreude let me state with conviction that no devil appeared on one shoulder ready to throw the pitchfork at his heavenly adversary perched on the other. I admit I was walloped by the irony of the situation, but remembering that we oncologists don’t earn the weekly envelope from our modeling engagements, I strapped on the armor and did what I do best - come up with a plan to kill the loathsome disease and return my friend to his occupation. This is my only reason for justifying the shingle hanging outside in the boulevard. As that urbane, Noel Coward of comedy would admonish me, if he were leaning against the doorway in a tuxedo, martini in hand:

“Git ‘er Done!“

I guess the lesson learned this week is this: anyone can get cancer. Wise oncologists realize this and treat all they meet with the same respect they afford their current patients. This is how reputations get built and how people get excellent care.

Besides, now I have a new friend to rely upon whenever I need that favor in the future. The way I see it, it’s up to me to ensure that he has a future.