It's a matter of priorities

If we had a dog he'd be hunting for a place to sleep because I would he occupying his house. Not that I did anything wrong, understand. It's because talk about medical stuff is boring.
Yesterday when the doc was using a scalpel to cut a large hunk out of my left hand he began with, "I could say this will hurt me more than it will you."
"You could say that, but I wouldn't believe you."
So as he sliced away and I grimaced, we discussed old movies, a favorite topic for both of us. When I was leaving and met Jackie in the waiting room she said, "When will the stitches be removed?"
"We agreed Casablanca is the best film ever made."
Looking at the half-inch thick bandage she said, "You can't get that wet, can you?"
"I was surprised that he thinks The Best Years of Our Lives was sad."
"He's having a biopsy done, right?"
"When a revival of Blithe Spirit ran on Broadway he flew to New York for one day just to see it."
"Did he say anything at all about your hand?"
"Can you believe he hasn't seen that film where Walter Matthau was trying to murder his wife?"
So anyway, my popularity rating isn't too high right now. Sympathy is not forthcoming whenever I say my hand hurts like hell. I'm tired of hearing, "That's the way it goes." I think "Seen any good movies lately?" is totally uncalled for.
So the next time one of these squamous cell carcinomas pops up, and they do so regularly, she can just go into the treatment room with me even though she doesn't like the sight of blood and gore. If there has to be any dull and boring medical talk it will have to come from her. The doc and I don't have time for it.

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