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Nonchalance. Something which had almost been unwittingly bred into him by his parents, who had always been very laid back, easy going and seemingly stressless. The calming influence of his parents had taught him that life doesn't need to be lived in a hurry, everything has a little time to spare and generally, there is little need to genuinely worry about anything.
This train of thought hadn't done him any injustice in the past. Stress didn't really affect someone who looked far enough ahead to plan contingencies. And after all, planning ahead was the key to an easy life. Start saving for retirement, invest here, insure this and that, guarantee this and prepare for everything else. Once all that is out of the way, all that's left is business as usual at school and, later, in the workplace, and whatever you want for during your own time.
By being laid back, but pre-emptory, Brian Wainwright carved out a decent and honest life for himself. Life was good, and nothing really came as a shock, since most things were prepared for in advance. And so it was that Brian enjoyed a laid back lifestyle.
So laid back he was that on the day his life changed, the first thing he thought about was the plans he had in place that would move into gear given the new circumstances. Most people would have paniced or just broken down into tears, but Brian remained calm, and systematic.
Just moments before, he had walked into his Doctor's room, slightly miffed still that Dr. Dogra wouldn't give him his test results over the phone. He had not felt himself for some months now. He had picked up the customary cold and flu during the christmas period, as most people do at that time of year. This had developed into a touch of bronchitis and then back to a cold again. But he had struggled to throw the illness off, and when, in March, he was still not at his best, he had finally conceded to see his doctor about it.
Dogra had intimated that it might be something more serious than a mere long-lasting cold, but hadn't sounded too concerned. He had taken a blood test, and sent the blood of for pretty much every conceivable test "just in case". Brian, expecting to call up 2 weeks later and be told he would have to be prescribed a course of anti-biotics for some bug he'd picked up which he probably wouldn't even be able to pronounce, he was mildly irritated when the clerk on the other end had told him that his results couldn't be given over the phone.
Had some law changed that he didn't know about? He could recall two occaisions when he'd called up in a similar manner, and been told what was wrong. But anyway, it wasn't anything to stress over, since he would still have to come in to pick up his prescription note anyway, so it was only a delay in knowing the unpronouncable name of his long-lasting flu.
He knew something was amiss when he opened the door to Dogra's room. Instead of being greeted with the usual toothy grin of the old Pakistani practitioner who had been his GP since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, Dogra seemed to try to smile, fail miserably and end up staring at Brian in some form of horrified grimace. Dogra shook it off immediately and greeted Brian.
"Hello Brian, how have you been feeling?" he probed, his voice certainly having lost its usual enthusiasm.
"I'm OK I guess, life as usual, just a few more tissues!" Brian replied, trying to inject a little humour, Dogra seemed to need some.
"Please, sit down..." Dogra tried to smile again, and gave up as it threatened another grimace.
Brian took a seat opposite Dogra, and waited for him to get all his papers in order, which at least was something ordinary. Dogra was a good man, but his desk was rarely in a presentable state.
"I've not had to have a conversation like this for quite a while, Brian, but we have to talk about your blood test results." Great, this didn't sound too good. A flurry of thoughts began swirling around his head like 'a week off work - shouldn't be a problem' and then 'two weeks off - boss won't mind, we've hit all the milestones early, and there aren't any important deliverables due for a while, I can take a little work home and keep up to date'. He was interrupted in his thoughts as Dogra moved on;
"I'm afraid what you have is more serious than any cold, or flu." he began "Considerably more serious, in fact."
"Don't keep me in suspense Doctor, I'm a grown man, I can take it!" Brian said, a little moresacarstic than he had intended. He was 24, 25 in three months' time, so he was certainly a man, but Dogra was considerably older, some 50 years of age by all accounts.
"I can't bring myself to joke about this, Brian, so I'll just say it." Dogra breathed heavilly, as though he were preparing himself for some test of virility, some critical event that would decide his adequacy as a man, then he continued "Your blood isn't right, Brian. More than 30 percent of your bone marrow is made up of plasma cells."
Brian had no idea what the implication of that would be, and Dogra must have known that, whatever he was trying to say, he was having trouble finding the words for it.
"Well, plasma cells are good, right?" He knocked in, completely ignorant on the subject, but hoping to prod Dogra into getting this over with, he needed to know how long he'd be off work so he could make plans.
"Not in those levels, Brian. Not nearly in those levels. A normal percentage is around 5 percent." replied, as if this was the key to the knowledge Brian sought.
"So I have what? Better blood than everyone else?" Brian said, still searching for the secret Dogra was reluctantly keeping from him.
"No, Brian. I'm afraid not. Brian, there is no easy way of saying this. You have Multiple Myeloma, a cancer of the blood" as he finished, Dogra's head seemed to droop on his shoulders like he's just died on the spot, but Brian wasn't done.
"Cancer? I have cancer? How? What? I don't understand!" Brian protested weakly.
Dogra then seemed to enter some sort of trance. Hardly looking at Brian, he began to shoot off the facts of the illness he faced. Multiple Myeloma. When the body produces too much plasma, and the excess cells form tumors which crowd out the white blood cells which fight off disease. A cancer of the blood. Sentences didn't form correctly in Brian's mind, and he only seemed to hear the odd keyword as it was thrown in his direction by Dogra's tirade. Cancer. Incurable. Experimental treatments. Infection. Dibilitation. Death.
Brian had yet one question to ask, and slowly and deliberately, he came out with "How long have I got?"
Dogra seemed to snap out of his trance and looked at Brian with forlorn eyes as he said "I can't say. No-one can say for sure. Left untreated, you could live for 2 years, or you could be dead in a number of months. The only treatments available are experimental, but in some cases, they have increased longevity to as much as 6 years.
"But I'm not going to kid you, Brian. I've known you since you were just a child, and I won't keep any facts from you now. The Myeloma is very advanced. Even if we were to start treatment today, I couldn't guarantee you more than a year." Dogra was on the point of crying, Brian could tell. And he didn't blame him! A year - at most! He was conditioned not to panic, and he didn't panic now. His thoughts filled with estimations of life insurance payouts, securities for his wife of 18 months, his unborn daughter.
A long moment seemed to pass while Brian thought of his finances, and Dogra tried to get a grip on himself. Eventually, Dogra broke the deadlock with "Brian, this isn't the most common form, but it's not exactly rare either. You're not alone. There are support groups..."
"SUPPORT GROUPS???" Brian interrupted, suddenly angry for no reason he could explain "What will they do for me? Stand me around talking about a disease that is going to kill me IN LESS THAN A YEAR and waste what little time I have left trying to consolidate my feelings with the grief of others?"
Dogra had no direct answer. He looked Brian briefly in the eyes, and then turned away as though the effort of looking directly at him made him weak.
"I have to be going." Brian said, "I have to strip the wallpaper in the dining room this afternoon." he offered "I need some air, anyway."
"Brian, I need to see you again, we have to arrange some form of treatment. Can you come in tomorrow?" Dogra seemed to have regained some composure, perhaps from the relief of Brian leaving.
"Sure, why not. Goodbye Doctor" The goodbye sounded more final than he had intended, but he had other things on his mind. He had some news for his wife, and she wasn't going to be best pleased.
-To Be Continued-
This train of thought hadn't done him any injustice in the past. Stress didn't really affect someone who looked far enough ahead to plan contingencies. And after all, planning ahead was the key to an easy life. Start saving for retirement, invest here, insure this and that, guarantee this and prepare for everything else. Once all that is out of the way, all that's left is business as usual at school and, later, in the workplace, and whatever you want for during your own time.
By being laid back, but pre-emptory, Brian Wainwright carved out a decent and honest life for himself. Life was good, and nothing really came as a shock, since most things were prepared for in advance. And so it was that Brian enjoyed a laid back lifestyle.
So laid back he was that on the day his life changed, the first thing he thought about was the plans he had in place that would move into gear given the new circumstances. Most people would have paniced or just broken down into tears, but Brian remained calm, and systematic.
Just moments before, he had walked into his Doctor's room, slightly miffed still that Dr. Dogra wouldn't give him his test results over the phone. He had not felt himself for some months now. He had picked up the customary cold and flu during the christmas period, as most people do at that time of year. This had developed into a touch of bronchitis and then back to a cold again. But he had struggled to throw the illness off, and when, in March, he was still not at his best, he had finally conceded to see his doctor about it.
Dogra had intimated that it might be something more serious than a mere long-lasting cold, but hadn't sounded too concerned. He had taken a blood test, and sent the blood of for pretty much every conceivable test "just in case". Brian, expecting to call up 2 weeks later and be told he would have to be prescribed a course of anti-biotics for some bug he'd picked up which he probably wouldn't even be able to pronounce, he was mildly irritated when the clerk on the other end had told him that his results couldn't be given over the phone.
Had some law changed that he didn't know about? He could recall two occaisions when he'd called up in a similar manner, and been told what was wrong. But anyway, it wasn't anything to stress over, since he would still have to come in to pick up his prescription note anyway, so it was only a delay in knowing the unpronouncable name of his long-lasting flu.
He knew something was amiss when he opened the door to Dogra's room. Instead of being greeted with the usual toothy grin of the old Pakistani practitioner who had been his GP since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, Dogra seemed to try to smile, fail miserably and end up staring at Brian in some form of horrified grimace. Dogra shook it off immediately and greeted Brian.
"Hello Brian, how have you been feeling?" he probed, his voice certainly having lost its usual enthusiasm.
"I'm OK I guess, life as usual, just a few more tissues!" Brian replied, trying to inject a little humour, Dogra seemed to need some.
"Please, sit down..." Dogra tried to smile again, and gave up as it threatened another grimace.
Brian took a seat opposite Dogra, and waited for him to get all his papers in order, which at least was something ordinary. Dogra was a good man, but his desk was rarely in a presentable state.
"I've not had to have a conversation like this for quite a while, Brian, but we have to talk about your blood test results." Great, this didn't sound too good. A flurry of thoughts began swirling around his head like 'a week off work - shouldn't be a problem' and then 'two weeks off - boss won't mind, we've hit all the milestones early, and there aren't any important deliverables due for a while, I can take a little work home and keep up to date'. He was interrupted in his thoughts as Dogra moved on;
"I'm afraid what you have is more serious than any cold, or flu." he began "Considerably more serious, in fact."
"Don't keep me in suspense Doctor, I'm a grown man, I can take it!" Brian said, a little moresacarstic than he had intended. He was 24, 25 in three months' time, so he was certainly a man, but Dogra was considerably older, some 50 years of age by all accounts.
"I can't bring myself to joke about this, Brian, so I'll just say it." Dogra breathed heavilly, as though he were preparing himself for some test of virility, some critical event that would decide his adequacy as a man, then he continued "Your blood isn't right, Brian. More than 30 percent of your bone marrow is made up of plasma cells."
Brian had no idea what the implication of that would be, and Dogra must have known that, whatever he was trying to say, he was having trouble finding the words for it.
"Well, plasma cells are good, right?" He knocked in, completely ignorant on the subject, but hoping to prod Dogra into getting this over with, he needed to know how long he'd be off work so he could make plans.
"Not in those levels, Brian. Not nearly in those levels. A normal percentage is around 5 percent." replied, as if this was the key to the knowledge Brian sought.
"So I have what? Better blood than everyone else?" Brian said, still searching for the secret Dogra was reluctantly keeping from him.
"No, Brian. I'm afraid not. Brian, there is no easy way of saying this. You have Multiple Myeloma, a cancer of the blood" as he finished, Dogra's head seemed to droop on his shoulders like he's just died on the spot, but Brian wasn't done.
"Cancer? I have cancer? How? What? I don't understand!" Brian protested weakly.
Dogra then seemed to enter some sort of trance. Hardly looking at Brian, he began to shoot off the facts of the illness he faced. Multiple Myeloma. When the body produces too much plasma, and the excess cells form tumors which crowd out the white blood cells which fight off disease. A cancer of the blood. Sentences didn't form correctly in Brian's mind, and he only seemed to hear the odd keyword as it was thrown in his direction by Dogra's tirade. Cancer. Incurable. Experimental treatments. Infection. Dibilitation. Death.
Brian had yet one question to ask, and slowly and deliberately, he came out with "How long have I got?"
Dogra seemed to snap out of his trance and looked at Brian with forlorn eyes as he said "I can't say. No-one can say for sure. Left untreated, you could live for 2 years, or you could be dead in a number of months. The only treatments available are experimental, but in some cases, they have increased longevity to as much as 6 years.
"But I'm not going to kid you, Brian. I've known you since you were just a child, and I won't keep any facts from you now. The Myeloma is very advanced. Even if we were to start treatment today, I couldn't guarantee you more than a year." Dogra was on the point of crying, Brian could tell. And he didn't blame him! A year - at most! He was conditioned not to panic, and he didn't panic now. His thoughts filled with estimations of life insurance payouts, securities for his wife of 18 months, his unborn daughter.
A long moment seemed to pass while Brian thought of his finances, and Dogra tried to get a grip on himself. Eventually, Dogra broke the deadlock with "Brian, this isn't the most common form, but it's not exactly rare either. You're not alone. There are support groups..."
"SUPPORT GROUPS???" Brian interrupted, suddenly angry for no reason he could explain "What will they do for me? Stand me around talking about a disease that is going to kill me IN LESS THAN A YEAR and waste what little time I have left trying to consolidate my feelings with the grief of others?"
Dogra had no direct answer. He looked Brian briefly in the eyes, and then turned away as though the effort of looking directly at him made him weak.
"I have to be going." Brian said, "I have to strip the wallpaper in the dining room this afternoon." he offered "I need some air, anyway."
"Brian, I need to see you again, we have to arrange some form of treatment. Can you come in tomorrow?" Dogra seemed to have regained some composure, perhaps from the relief of Brian leaving.
"Sure, why not. Goodbye Doctor" The goodbye sounded more final than he had intended, but he had other things on his mind. He had some news for his wife, and she wasn't going to be best pleased.
-To Be Continued-
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You scare me...
Talking to yourself and all that...
Talking to yourself and all that...
*BUMP*
this... is hilarious!
I ate some soap and now my mouth tastes like soap.
Narcøleptic Insomniac wrote:
> In any case, I am not he, so please if you must comment, please
> comment on my material, and not its apparent similarity to somebody
> else's style.
>
> Funny. Almost genius. But I hope you're not going to genuinely try to
> take credit for my writing. I'm not too bothered, as I'm just trying
> to jot down the odd idea that comes into my head. It gets me through
> my day... But taking credit for my work is just a little bit rude!
A nice attempt to brush the snow over your clumsy footsteps, but too late I'm afraid. All evidence points to you IB, even this last effort to save yourself just stinks of your writing. What other newbie on the face of this planet wouldn't mind his authorship being questioned?
Also, who was it who was complaining a while back because you didn't win GADs for your posts anymore? Hence you post under a new account.
I know coincidences happen, but not so great that someone writes a post using your exact style, using the same vocabulary, using the same website, and using your favourite forum.
Re-register under a different username and take more care not to blow it this time.
> In any case, I am not he, so please if you must comment, please
> comment on my material, and not its apparent similarity to somebody
> else's style.
>
> Funny. Almost genius. But I hope you're not going to genuinely try to
> take credit for my writing. I'm not too bothered, as I'm just trying
> to jot down the odd idea that comes into my head. It gets me through
> my day... But taking credit for my work is just a little bit rude!
A nice attempt to brush the snow over your clumsy footsteps, but too late I'm afraid. All evidence points to you IB, even this last effort to save yourself just stinks of your writing. What other newbie on the face of this planet wouldn't mind his authorship being questioned?
Also, who was it who was complaining a while back because you didn't win GADs for your posts anymore? Hence you post under a new account.
I know coincidences happen, but not so great that someone writes a post using your exact style, using the same vocabulary, using the same website, and using your favourite forum.
Re-register under a different username and take more care not to blow it this time.
Great. What does that mean?
*vaguely wonders which account he's using*
*vaguely wonders which account he's using*
You vomitus mass of insecurity. You wretched excuse for a bipedal author. My soul quivers with the phony lacrimosity of this missive, equalled only by the hilarity of posting under your main account and then trying to pretend you didnt and who-is-this-dude?
A structurally unsafe attempt at back-tracking and indeed rankles the very cankers of the soul.
A structurally unsafe attempt at back-tracking and indeed rankles the very cankers of the soul.
Insane Bartender wrote:
> This is the second time I've been called "Insane Bartender".
> I'm not really bothered myself, though I'd like to see some of what
> this person has written for comparison.
>
> In any case, I am not he, so please if you must comment, please
> comment on my material, and not its apparent similarity to somebody
> else's style.
Funny. Almost genius. But I hope you're not going to genuinely try to take credit for my writing. I'm not too bothered, as I'm just trying to jot down the odd idea that comes into my head. It gets me through my day... But taking credit for my work is just a little bit rude!
I'll probably get round to writing the second part of this later this week, if anyone's interested (doubt it though!).
> This is the second time I've been called "Insane Bartender".
> I'm not really bothered myself, though I'd like to see some of what
> this person has written for comparison.
>
> In any case, I am not he, so please if you must comment, please
> comment on my material, and not its apparent similarity to somebody
> else's style.
Funny. Almost genius. But I hope you're not going to genuinely try to take credit for my writing. I'm not too bothered, as I'm just trying to jot down the odd idea that comes into my head. It gets me through my day... But taking credit for my work is just a little bit rude!
I'll probably get round to writing the second part of this later this week, if anyone's interested (doubt it though!).
LOL!
Jeez man, why does it even matter what people think of you or what you write anyway?
Jeez man, why does it even matter what people think of you or what you write anyway?
His cronic lying will lead to greater things, you just wait and see.
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