“Well, first of all, don’t bend your knees so much. And try to keep your left elbow straight when you make contact with the ball. Also, make sure you keep your head down – you tend to look up to see where the ball went. Another thing I’ve noticed is… .”

I struggled to incorporate his myriad suggestions into my swing. The end result was that by the time darkness fell I couldn’t even hit the ball.

That was three months ago. I’m still trying to unlearn the tips that vaporized my fledgling game that fateful evening. Welcome to the wonderful world of golf. Fore!

Oops!

Yesterday evening I was playing ping-pong with my daughters when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi Dr. Gray. This is Trish on unit 4. I know you’re not on call, but Mr. Arcularis just died and you had asked to be notified when that happened.”

“Thanks, Trish. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I drove to the hospital, retrieved my stethoscope from the locker room and walked over to the ward. Halfway down the hall I met one of our new medical students.

“Zhora, do you know which room my patient who just died is in?”

“Room 10, I think.”

“Thanks.”

I opened the door to room 10 and stepped inside. A dozen teary-eyed people twisted around and stared at me. I didn’t recognize any of them. Someone in a white lab coat was leaning over an inert figure in the bed. As I drew closer I realized it was the on-call physician. He appeared to be in the process of pronouncing a patient dead. A female patient. He looked befuddled when he saw me.

“Oh, I’m sorry Donovan,” he said. “Was she your patient?” Then it hit me. Two people died at the same time, and I’m in the wrong room!

The mourners were practically staring a hole in me. They probably all thought I had arrived to make some sort of earth-shattering announcement. Why else would I be barging in on such an incredibly private moment? I wanted to withdraw unobtrusively, but I knew that if I back-pedalled out the door I’d look like a complete idiot. I therefore strode up to my colleague, cupped my hand to his ear and whispered: “I’m in the wrong room! Act like I’m telling you something important!”

“Ah, yes, I’ll look into that right away!” he blurted. “Absolutely! One hundred percent!” He nodded sagely and stroked his chin a few times for added effect. It was a Razzie-worthy performance.

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.