I mumbled a quick thank you, turned around and scuttled away. How embarrassing!
Cancer
Cancer is greedy. It starts off as a single cell that is different from the rest. It multiplies continuously, with absolute disregard for the inhibitory signals sent to it by neighbouring cells.
As it grows it compresses and invades adjacent structures with impunity. It sends emissaries via the blood vessels and lymphatics to remote locations within the body. Some of them find fertile ground and start new colonies of destruction. The malignancy relentlessly devours nutrients intended for normal cells. In the absence of timely medical intervention and a bit of luck, the host eventually withers and dies. Ironically, when that happens the cancer dies too. Death is the ultimate chemotherapy.
Most people with cancer would be more than willing to strike a deal with their tumour whereby the two would live symbiotically and share all available nutrients. Unfortunately, cancer has no interest in abiding by covenants. Its only desire is to grow. As a result, it grows until it kills the very organism that it needs to survive. Cancer isn’t just greedy; it’s stupid as well.
Recently a friend of mine died of cancer. They won’t be making any feel-good movies about her demise anytime soon. Her death was not poignant and meaningful. It was ugly, protracted and pointless. She suffered tremendously. She fought hard, but as the seasons passed her independence gradually dissolved away.
As each therapeutic regimen failed her hope for a cure diminished, until one day it was gone. She became glassy-eyed and monosyllabic. She stopped eating and drinking. Eventually she lapsed into a coma. Her loyal family kept a grim bedside vigil.
On the morning she died, the emotional dam finally burst. A flood of tears of bitterness, sorrow and relief was released. The healing process began.
Betcha Can’t Eat Just One
Buster is a 55-year-old hypertensive diabetic who brings new meaning to the term non-compliant. He takes his medications randomly, eats tons of junk, thumbs his nose at exercise and smokes a couple of packs a day.
Recently he had a heart attack that was complicated by a mild case of congestive heart failure. I treated him with the usual meds and admitted him to unit 4.
When I did rounds later that evening I found him happily munching away on a jumbo-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips.
“Buster, what are you doing eating chips?” I squawked. “You’re supposed to be on a low-salt diet!”
“Oops, sorry, doc.” He put them away sheepishly.
The next day I returned to see my star patient. To my astonishment he was in the process of finishing off another ginormous bag of chips.
“Buster, didn’t I tell you yesterday to stay away from chips? There’s too much salt in them!”
“Relax, doc,” he replied. “These are barbeque!”
Curious George
Last patient of the day at the office. What final malady awaits me on the other side of this closed door? Right now I’ve got about as much energy as a fading boxer in the clinch, so I’m hoping to close out with a no-brainer like a blood pressure check. I lift the chart out of the rack. To my dismay there are two more files hiding behind it. It’s the three-for-one Family Special. I’ve been had! I open the door and step inside.
Mrs. Fregoli is frowning as she weighs herself. When she steps off the scale it creaks with relief. Six-year-old Rachael is perched on the edge of the examining table. She quickly scans the pockets of my lab coat to ensure I’m not trying to smuggle any needles into the room. Her five-year-old brother George is playing with the framed photograph of my daughters on my desk. I relieve him of his newfound swag and secure it on a high shelf.
“Hi Mrs. Fregoli. How can I help you today?”
“Doctor, I think sometimes my heart goes lub-lub instead of lub-dub.”
“Okay, I’ll have a listen in a minute. And what’s wrong with your children?”
“Oh, they’re fine, but I figured since I was coming in to see you I might as well bring them along for checkups.”
“All right, then.” I turn to her daughter. “Hullo, Rachael. Is it okay if I look at you first?”
“Sure,” she replies gamely.
I’m reaching for the wall-mounted otoscope when I realize George is rifling through one of the drawers of my supplies cabinet. His mother doesn’t appear to be particularly perturbed by this.
“Stay out of those drawers please, George,” I call to him. He races over to the door and starts yanking on the handle.
“No, Georgie,” his mother says. He pulls a face and bunny-hops back to his chair.
Whoa, I bet he’s a real handful.
I resume examining Rachael. I’m squinting down her left ear canal when a loud crash startles us both. George has somehow managed to knock several textbooks off my desk. He flashes us all an impish grin and pirouettes over to the sink.
“Don’t touch that, Georgie,” pleads his mother.
He turns both faucets on full blast and claps his hands in the torrent of water. Everything within a two-foot radius of the sink gets soaked. I turn off the taps, clean up the mess and gently steer him back to his seat. He sits still for a microsecond, then starts rocking from side to side. I return to Rachael’s examination.
A minute later Mrs. Fregoli sighs heavily and says: “Would you believe my little Georgie just got a three-day suspension from kindergarten?”
What’s not to believe?
“Why was he suspended?” I ask politely.
“Supposedly for poor behaviour. They say that instead of listening to his teacher, he just runs all over the place.”
Sort of like he’s doing right now?
George is merrily tearing around the room. He’s pushing the three-wheeled stool I usually sit on. Every so often he bashes it into one of the walls.
BLAM!
“George, honey; please stop that. Like I was saying, doctor . . .”
BLAM!
I separate George from the stool. He stamps his feet and sits on the floor.
“… I don’t know what they’re talking about. He’s never any trouble at home,” she finishes.
“Is this how his teachers say he behaves at school?” I ask, looking up at the flickering overhead lights. George is treating us all to a funky disco strobe light effect by rapidly oscillating the light switch.
“George, dear; please stop that. No doctor, apparently it’s much worse than this. They say at school he’s completely out of control. My husband and I think they must be exaggerating.”
George is seriously overloading my occipital cortex with his pyrotechnic light show. I can smell burnt toast! Before my impending seizure erupts, I pry his moist little fingers off the switch.
“Stop that,” I hiss at him through gritted teeth. He scowls at me and launches into some mutant cross between jumping jacks and burpees.
“They’ve been after me to get him tested for hyperactivity,” his mum volunteers.
“Well, he certainly is exhibiting – ”
“They also think he might have something called ODD, whatever that is,” she continues.
“Oppositional Defiant Disorder,” I explain.
“Huh?”
“ODD is an acronym for Oppositional Defiant Disorder.”
“Whatever. Anyway, they’ve been trying to get our permission to have him tested for ADD as well as this ODD thing, but we told them to forget it.”
George tips over the wastepaper basket.
“Why don’t you want him tested?” I ask.
George is standing on the three-wheeled stool.
“Because there’s nothing wrong with him,” she replies.