Eating an Elephant

(A Cynical Field Report from the Frontlines of Modern Medicine)

Well, today was the big day — my grand audience with the fancy doctor. Two-hour drive, plenty of time to contemplate mortality and bad radio. I arrived early, naturally, only to begin the sacred ritual of waiting — the medical world’s favorite form of foreplay.

First came the five-page “new patient” paperwork. I half expected a question about my childhood trauma or whether I’ve accepted the inevitability of death.

Then came the eye pictures, courtesy of the biggest Nikon camera I’ve ever seen — thing looked like it could spot a tick on the moon. After that, the usual alphabet soup test: E, F, P, T, O, Z. I’m starting to think it’s less about vision and more about memorization.

Back to the waiting room — the holding pen of the soon-to-be-diagnosed. Twenty minutes later, I was injected with contrast dye. The nurse, all smiles, warned me it’d make my pee glow like radioactive lemonade. She wasn’t lying. Then another twenty minutes of waiting, presumably to let my soul marinate in fluorescent regret.

Eyes dilated next. I hate that part — it’s like being flash-banged by life itself. More pictures. More pressure checks. More poking and prodding to confirm that, yes, I do in fact have eyeballs. Finally, I get ushered into the real chamber — where the doctor, the high priestess of this fluorescent temple, will deliver the verdict. But first, another ultrasound of the eyeball, because who doesn’t love a little ocular sonar with their existential dread?

Then came the news: melanoma. Probably. Ninety-five percent sure, give or take a small miracle. Could also be the encore performance of my previous cancer. The doc, calm as a monk, ordered a PET scan — apparently to decide whether I’m growing new cancer or just recycling old stock.

If it’s melanoma, she’s my gal. If not, I get handed off to a different oncologist — like a defective product in a cosmic customer service exchange. Either way, I suppose I should start pricing eye patches. Nothing says “mystery and trauma” like looking perpetually ready to board a pirate ship.

It’s a lot to process. The kind of news that makes your brain stall out, like a cheap car in rush-hour traffic. So I told myself what everyone tells themselves when staring down something too big to swallow: One bite at a time.

Eating an elephant — one forkful of absurdity after another.

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