Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

After a long career an aged doctor decided that among other things the Chicago Cubs were never going to make it back to the World Series, so he gave up the ghost. He soon found himself in a long line winding its way toward the magnificent gates of heaven. When he got to the front he announced himself to St. Peter, who upon hearing his name made a sound like a dachshund jumping out of a hayloft, startling several roly-poly putti who were floating half-asleep above the saint. The following is an unexpurgated transcript of their conversation:

Saint Peter: You! Well it’s about time! We’ve been waiting for you!

Doctor: Oh? Why is that?

S.P.: ‘Oh? Oh?’ Don’t be coy with me, buddy. Aren’t you the doctor who kept constantly asking for miraculous healing for your patients? How many requests for divine intervention do you think we get up here? Do you know how much you distracted the Lord with your almost daily pleadings for mercy? What, do you think all we do around here is send the Holy Spirit by Fed Ex to your office every day?

Doctor: But Your Honor, I was a medical oncologist. Our treatments improved over time but never really cured even a majority of people with metastatic cancer. Was it wrong to ask for a little help from the Man upstairs?

S.P.: Don’t call me ‘Your Honor’! Who do you think I am, Judge Wapner? I’m the holder of the keys to get in this place - Your Holiness, to you, bub! Where in heaven’s name did you come up with the audacity to bombard us with all those incessant prayers? You not only monopolized the Lord’s time, you forced us to bring in so many temps Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel ended up taking bets on how many could dance on the head of a pin.

Doctor: I know I was somewhat exuberant, but I don’t think I truly abused the privilege that much. It all started when I put in a quick request for some celestial intervention for one of my patients who was newly married. After all, could you just stand by and watch a healthy young man waste away, not to mention the Boss? Think about all the times He acted with mercy but from the touch of His robe or the sound of a nearby voice crying.

S.P.: Ahem! For your information, sir, we do not call the Messiah “The Boss.” Really! Now, as to the particulars of your entry…according to my records you successfully received so many instances of grace (yes, I know you weren’t actually praying for your own personal salvation) that your account is overdrawn. For your penance you’ll have to wait out here for say, two or three millennia.

Doctor: Oh, for Christ’s - nevermind. Look - I liked to know that everything was being done to help my patients - that was part of the reason why I asked the Heavenly Father to intercede. It wasn’t like I was asking for eternal life; even those who are cured of cancer will eventually find themselves cooling their heels in front of this desk - and what a beautiful piece of furniture is it, I might say - adds loads to your regalness, Your Worship.

S.P.: Don’t try to butter me up - you are officially bankrupt and will have to either earn your way in here or enjoy playing a few billion games of solitaire.

Doctor: Did you say earn your way in here?

S.P.: Yes, there is a little know codicil in the Bible that allows goody-two-shoes like yourself to obtain a speed pass to the Elysian Fields if you agree to continue your good works out here in the holding area.

Doctor: Say no more, O bearded wonder! Just give me a stethoscope and show me the way to the nearest ward!

Thus did the old sawbones hobble on down the road where, except for one or two cases of terminal egomania, he thoroughly enjoyed his second chance at caring for those who suffer. In fact, he loved his work so much that when his name was finally called it took four members of the 1932 Chicago Bears to drag him away from the sick bay and through the golden archway to Paradise.