The doctor looks at the report before him. Then at you. He tries to smile but both the attempt to smile and the smile itself fall flat and evaporate.
He clears his throat, sits up and leans forward. He peers at you from the top of his eyeglasses.
He coughs, but you know it is another false start.
"Sir, let me be straight with you. And speak in layman's terms. From the results of the test we conducted, you have cancer of the---"
It is enough that the intruder is cancer, the organ it lays claim to is insignificant.
All your life see to summarize itself before you. You wonder if this is how it will all end. You sigh. Then you remember something, you look up and smile at him. He stops talking and begins to stammer and fidget. He fears that the news he gave you has scrambled your mental radar. But there is something restful, celestial about your smile.
"Doctor," you begin, "I heard what you said. But this is what I understood: the spirit of cancer is in town and it wants to know if my body is available for permanent residence."
With a determined look on your face, and in a sonorous voice, you declare, "No, I'm not available."
The doctor picks up the phone and begins to dial with shaky fingers.
He's certain you've lost it.
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