"Rosanne. You are my worst nightmare."
"Well, Doc. You're mine!"
He explained the situation, which is basically that the tumor I have is a ghost and that they were pretty much doing the surgery blind. They cut out where they think it was - basically a quarter of my uterus, so they figured they had a 25% either way of getting it right!
But it wasn't all right, and when he came back for my lab results, they weren't good.
I yelled "Shit!" when he said my HCG levels went up, and I guess he's used to anger 'cause he wasn't fazed; he just kept right on talking! I guess you have to be used to anger in the oncology ward.
He told me he knew I was religious because of the school I had attended (that's a little stereotypical, Doc), so he told me that, while he wasn't a pray-er (one who prays, not the noun. Or one who preys), he gave me full
permission to do so this week if I wanted to. So I told him, "I know you're not a praying man, but if you want to be this week, that's ok." I see no reason why I shouldn't be a complete exception to his....entire way of living. Wait.
He told me he had called one Dr. S, the nation's leading specialist on gestational diseases. So I casually mentioned that if it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be learning so much. You're welcome. (I also say that to him on a regular basis, usually without being thanked).
"Doctor, if you get rich off this, I want a slice."
"How am I going to get rich off this?"
"Like I know!" I said. "But if I end up being the only person with it, and you find some cure or something, that's all I'm sayin'."
They haven't found someone else yet, so things are lookin' good!