So I'm starting to get a little bored with my situation (not "The Situation" aka Jersey Shore Mike, whom I'm certainly not bored with and whom I might have a little crush on but can't decide between him or Pauly D.....but I digress....). My life seems a little dull right now. How do I know this, you rightly ask. It could be the middle of the Northeast winter which is depressing on any day. It could be not having a paying job. Or it might just be me being over the whole cancer thing. In any event, when the most exciting thing that happens to you is an infected hemorrhoid, and you start looking forward to going to the doctor for a full rectal examination and work-up, because it eats up at least a good two hours in an otherwise dull day and slow news week, you know you need to get a life.
I am going to make a promise to you, my faithful reader(s), that I will ramp this blog up and start making it something worthy of a million-dollar book deal and an appearance on the Oprah Show. Or the Gayle King Show. Or the Sarah Palin Show. Whomever comes knocking first.
But let's get down to business. Now we've covered the unspeakable assault on my nether regions of last week (which I'm pleased to say has been defeated by a nuclear arsenal of antibiotics and a myriad of snake-charmer-like ointments), I want to talk about something far more serious. Cancer patient profiling. Yes people, it's out there and we need to do something about it. Now. Before someone gets really pissed off.
So I was sitting in my oncologist's office last week, because the invasion of the nether regions by some infectious agent caused the cancer doctors to get nervous, and of course then required me to give a keg-load of my blood to make sure that my white blood cell counts were in fighting enough shape to kick this thing in the arse (horrible double entendre I know, but had to be done I'm afraid folks). Now this was a good thing from the point of view that it ate up invaluable minutes in an otherwise unproductive day, but a bad thing from the point of view that sitting in the cancer doctor's office with a thing growing out of your arse, an IV lead hanging out of the doorbell embedded in your chest, and a generally bad attitude to boot, is not many people's idea of a good time. But it does perhaps make you a little more sensitive to the everyday transgressions in "cancer etiquette".
Anyway, at my Doctor's office there is a horribly complicated waiting-room system; one for the mere mortals accompanying the poor cancer victims and another smaller waiting room for the poor cancer victims. You advance to the smaller waiting room to await your audience with your appointed medical genius, but only after you have been stuck with needles, promised your first-born child, weighed (just to remind yourself that you have cancer AND are 10-lbs overweight), and parted with most of your body's blood production for that day. Cancer victims go to the small waiting room and accompanying mere mortals must wait in the large waiting room. Got it ?
So I'm sitting there well into hour two of my fifteen minute visit, catching up on my Octomom and Kate Gosselin hair extension news, when I am rudely interrupted by Nurse Ratchet from the other side of the room. If memory serves me, the conversation went something like this.
Nurse Ratchet: "Oi You"
Cancer Victims: All look up perplexed.
Nurse Ratchet: "I said you".
Cancer Victim #1: "Who me ?"
Nurse Ratchet: "No you"
Cancer Victim #2 (aka Me): "Me" , pointing to myself.
Nurse Ratchet: In a very bitchy voice. "Yes you ! Who are you here to see ?"
Cancer Victim #2 (aka Me): "Dr Genius".
Nurse Ratchet: In a very bitchy voice. "Well get out of here and go and wait in the big waiting room. NOW !!!!"
Cancer Victim #2 proceeds meekly out of small waiting room, mutters defiantly "Whatever" and goes to large waiting room, continues muttering under her breath, and thinks better of killing Nurse Ratchet after spying fully uniformed and armed cop sitting across from her. Waits another hour and then is called back into small waiting room and is beckoned into Nurse Ratchet's office.
Nurse Ratchet. In sickly sweet voice: "Hi honey, how are you feeling today ? You look a little agitated. Why didn't you tell me you had a port. I wouldn't have kicked you out. You just don't look like a cancer patient. You seem too young and attractive".
ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME ?????? I just got cancer patient profiled. I feel violated. Next time I come to see Nurse Ratchet, I'll be sure to put on my most down-trodden look, dress myself in head-to-toe in garish pink-ribbon-laden Survivor gear, lose 55 lbs and throw up in her lap just for good measure. Maybe then she'll let me sit in the small waiting room.
Moral of this story, people ? First, use Charmin toilet roll, and nothing else. Secondly, next time you think you want to be rude to someone, take a second and just smile because you never know what kind of a day that person just had, cancer sucks and you don't need to make it worse. Third. Pauly D.