Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

As part of a continuing series we bring you another delightful story from the memory of The Cheerful Oncologist (before incipient dementia pillages the old frontal lobes).

Gosh, but it seems just like yesterday that I jolted awake after a restless night amidships the slumber sloop and faced the bloodshot sun on my first morning in private practice - a “real doctor,” as they say in waiting room magazine articles. After years of soporific study, receiving verbal abuse from bearded residents wearing clogs, and sprawling across messy nurses’ stations littered with half-empty cups of fossilized coffee, I was finally at the threshold of glory that can only rest upon the shoulders of the attending physician, who wears the long white coat, not that may-I-take-your-order-madam silly white jacket of the intern. As I stood in front of my closet on that remarkable day I had no idea that this career kickoff would leave an impression worthy of being included in these chronicles. Therefore, gentle readers, with your kind permission let me relate some of the highlights of my inauguration into the majestic world of private practice.

The Dressing

While fingering my rather threadbare collection of men’s shirts (so I’m no Jay Gatsby), I realized that I had forgotten to obtain a long white coat in which to stagger my new staff with, not to mention that part about glory awaiting on the other side of the doorway. Being a newly minted attending I couldn’t just show up for work in a pink oxford button-down with a flamingo-encrusted bow tie, so I decided to put on a suit. This seemed to be a sound compromise that would likely have the patients and nurses buzzing with gossip about the “handsome young doctor,” even if I did look like I was loaded with brochures about variable annuities. The only problem was that it was July and the only summer suit I owned was a tan cotton number last worn during the wedding reception of Cousin Jimbo approximately two wives ago. Never one to let foreshadowing interfere with making an idiotic decision, I donned the togs and headed down to breakfast.

Let it be recorded evermore in the annals that my wife, upon seeing me slide into the kitchen wearing this ensemble, acquired an unusual smile and belted out several stanzas of “I Believe in You” while performing the fox trot with a box of Froot Loops. I was not amused, and quickly drove off before I realized that another small detail had slipped past the safety net underneath my absent-mindedness: I had no idea how to get to the hospital from my house.

The Drive to Work

Had you been one of those early birds lining the trees of our fair suburbs, bursting with ideas about how to lay claws into a meaty breakfast, you might have heard the putt-putt of a small foreign coupe’ as it wandered along curves and hills, a bit of hesitation in its step. Aye, that was me on the road that morning, trying to decide which route would be the most direct to my beloved destination. I chose to jump on an obscure highway then enter a street that (unknown to me at the time) was vying for the title of “Most Traffic Lights in America,” although in retrospect it could have challenged all comers for “Greatest Number of Bus Stops,” too.

Now I knew how Henry Stanley felt when he reached Lake Tanganyika. My little journey took so long I could have written an addendum or two to Einstein’s Special Theory, if I had been able to recall what was so special about it. By the time I finally arrived at the hospital I was as hysterical as a barrel above Niagra Falls containing a rhumba of rattlesnakes. I hurried through the silent glass doors and sneaked into the main office, then found my private office. There I found my partner sitting on the edge of the metal desk I had just inherited from a former billing clerk, wearing a grin that only an upcoming three-week vacation can produce. He greeted me, sang my praises and dashed off to catch his plane. I opened a drawer or two and felt my suit jacket hugging me like a lovesick python. Not want to be caught in a dreamy state of thumb-twiddling, I turned to get up and dropped my jaw at a most unusual item in the corner.

It seems that my new office was also the employee’s break room, for there on a faux-wooden cart, smeared with fingerprints, was a microwave oven. The glory that was Greece began to slowly slide down the back of my shiny suit into the plastic wastebasket plopped next to my clangy, dented desk. I took my jacket off, tossed it on the floor and peered out into the hallway. In the distance I could hear squawks of laughter. My first day on the job had begun.

Next - Private Practice: The First Day, Part Two: If It Can Crawl Through Your Front Door…