Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

“Individuals who have a genetic variation associated with slower caffeine metabolism appear to have an increased risk of non-fatal heart attack associated with higher amounts of coffee intake, according to a study in the March 8 issue of JAMA.”

My God, is nothing sacred? It’s already bad enough that some of the more hapless members of our species who, in a bit of heavenly monkeyshines, were born with humiliatingly defective genes now coming to life like Frankenstein’s monster and guaranteeing a life of high cholesterol and other hereditary predicaments. But coffee? Dear, slick, hot, compost-heapy, slurpy, nutty, jangle-your-nervy-nerves coffee? Are you telling me that I might have to risk a heart attack every time I order up a double choco-peppermint caffe’ macchiato with whipped cream? Where am I going to get my daily jolt if not from coffee, and don’t tell me to forgo the caffeine. I tried that once, with devastating consequences.

Must we persist in this relentless search to find every “genetic variation” hiding within our DNA foot locker? When will some respected authority finally announce that it’s time to stop punishing the human race for being alive and let us eat and drink what we want? Heaven knows we all want to live long enough to become a burden to our children, but don’t you think it’s time we put our personal habits into the proper perspective? It seems that the know-it-alls are on a mission to take all pleasure away from anyone who lives long enough to become a legal adult. First it was laudanum, then cocaine, then absinthe, followed by marijuana and alcohol (oh, wait - booze made it back into our good graces in ‘33) - and now caffeine?

Mama mia, what will be next?

Unfortunately, as a respected member of the medical community I feel it is my duty to set a good example to my patients. Hell itself will freeze over before I give up caffeine, let alone a genetic predisposition to colorful language, but as penance for all my prior sins, and as a public service to my readers, I grudgingly announce that I am making the following changes in my lifestyle:

1. I promise to get no less than eight hours of sleep per night. (Of course this means that the dog, being denied her punctual 3 A.M. trip to the back yard, will now whiz all over the carpet while I slumber).

2. I hereby eschew all coffee, no matter how hard the baristas work to disguise it as a frothy melted Milky Way bar, and will drink only virginal tea leaves harvested from the shady side of the Himalayas during a full moon.

3. Exercise is now part of my daily routine, not just something I get after a hot dog stand owner yells “Stop thief!” (Do you know how hard it is to run and spread on mustard at the same time?)

4. The following potentially detrimental habits, although not yet revealed to shorten one’s life, will now and forever be banned from my person, lest I read about them in Newsweek next year and drop dead from the shock. They are: public flatulence, a cavalier attitude when applying deodorant, comb-overs, an excessive affection for garlic, a certain lackadaisical attitude about stepping in doggy doo-doo, shaving off back hair, and last but not least snapping one’s fingers to the beat in front of the kids when “Knock Three Times” comes on the radio.

Genetic variations be damned, I’m going to do my part to live to be a hundred years old! I just hope they’re still playing reruns of all my favorite shows if I make it that far. After all, what are we working so hard to live so long for, if not for the things we value most?