The door squeaked open and the doctor came in. That myopic idiot couldn’t diagnose his way out of a paper bag. But he looked sombre. Maybe he’s actually found something this time? He’s not wearing his usual stupid toothy grin.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Yippee! The jackpot! Finally, validation. No more, “Oh, he just wants attention, there’s nothing wrong with him.” I told them so. I told them I was dying. This’ll show them. Now they’re all going to wait on me hand and foot, babbling on about how we didn’t spend enough time together. I’ll show them for not believing me . . . I know what I’ll do. I’ll leave all my money to the hospital to build a new wing — on the condition that they name it after me, of course . . . and hire some doctors who know what they’re doing. I’ve been telling them I’m dying for over ten years — now that I only have days, maybe hours, this moron finally figures it out . . . Probably why they kicked me out of medical school. I was giving the right diagnosis the first time instead of running test after test, milking the insurance companies for every dollar I could, like these thieves.
I tried to look sober as the doctor cleared his throat.
“Just give it to me straight, Doc.” I should win a freakin’ Academy Award.
“I have bad news,” he repeated, his face starting to convulse. “You look awful in that gown,” he said, collapsing into a fit of laughter.
Stupid quack.
Comments are closed.