Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Eaten alive



Waiting for Scott at Starbuck's today, I was fiddling with the radio, trying to find a radio station that would stop blathering at me and would start playing some interesting tunes.

I'm not much for commercial radio, and I've given up on The Dawg because of the news reader named Alissa who keeps dropping her "Gs". The quality of radio has indeed gone to the Dawgs.

Anyway, I was stopped in my channel surfacing on The Jewel when I heard an advertisement for same day MRIs.

"No waiting," the announcer crooned.

It got me thinking that an MRI would be a great gift for Dad this Christmas.

"Hey Dad, we all chipped in this Christmas and instead of getting you the big screen you wanted, we got you a full body scan!"

It would be a bummer, though, if the scan revealed that Dad had inoperable cancer. Or any other disease that could be detected at, say, Stage One, but could only be treated at Stage Two.

I'm thinking Dad would be leaving you out of the will.

A little later on, today, I was at the gymnasty listening to Doctor Marla Shapiro blorging on about a new study that said that women who drank even moderately were twice as likely to get breast cancer.

The interviewer pressed her about the study, asking about past drinking behavior. You could see her face change, and she admitted that women who drank heavily in their youth had a significantly higher chance of getting breast cancer in their post-menopausal years.

Shit.

My track record is not good.

University.

Journalism.

Politics.

Public relations.

It's like skin cancer.

All the studies warn that early exposure to the sun significantly increases a person's chance of getting skin cancer.

Hmmm.

Bathing beauty.

Rower.

Tennis player.

Screwed and tatooed am I.

I admire Diane Stuebing, the woman who famously sailed around the world after she got the verdict she had skin cancer.

A full troll of the Earth couldn't have been good for her condition, but at least she got a good tan.

If a person spent too much time listening to studies, she would go absolutely bonkers. And have no fun or no life.

I prefer to look to my role models.

Pinetop Perkins lived to be nearly 100. He drank whiskey, smoked Benson and Hedges and ate nothing but bananas and McDonald's. My old press club friend Morley Mackenzie died in his 90s and he smoked like a chimney and drank a fifth of vodka everyday.

Then, of course, there was the Queen Mother who was said to have had her first gin and tonic before lunch every single day.

And I don't believe she ever had breast cancer.

Obviously, she had good genes. Or her body just didn't care.

We must be reminded that many of these so-called experts have spent their lives getting the right amount of fibre and exercise while shunning well done meat and liquor.

At least two of them I know got cancer anyway.

In both cases, the cancer was detected early.

They must have gone to Gatineau for an MRI.

The MRI might be a good thing.

But it doesn't stop your body from eating you alive.

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