The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Problem was, Dr. Greene couldn’t see me for at least two weeks. Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but in this instance, two weeks was a long fucking time. My wife and I called around to other doctors in an effort to speak with someone sooner and got similar responses. We begged Dr. Greene’s receptionist for an earlier appointment. Sorry, this was the best they could do. So we waited. In the meantime, I got started on steroids.

I had something growing in my head I wanted the damn thing out. Mine wasn't as big in the rarified world of brain tumors, but it was still strange knowing you have something growing inside your head that shouldn’t be there.


The days crawled as we waited for Dr. Greene. Each day seemed to take on greater importance. My eyesight was deteriorating and I had to work harder and harder to keep my left eye open. My eyelid was starting to droop and I looked like a drunken, lazy pirate. If I didn’t focus on keeping my eye open it would sag – almost as if I was falling asleep. I tried to drive as little as possible and just waited.

I tried to find patient reviews of Dr. Greene on the web. There are sites where you can comment on various physicians in your area with all the same insight and vitriol normally reserved for bad pizza joints. Predictably, the only comments I found were half-assed. Most were just one or two sentences; the most cohesive one was a lengthy rant on Dr. Greene’s alleged cold demeanor and choice of decor. Apparently it was sparsely decorated, and that didn’t measure up to the anonymous poster’s idea of what a neurosurgeon’s office should look like.

At this point he could’ve had floor-to-ceiling Tom of Finland prints, rugs made of baby seal pelts, drank blood and dressed like Cher. I didn’t really care – I just wanted the goddamn tumor gone.