Pitt stop at the point of nose return

Bob Morrissey

I was squirming in my favourite chair, two feet from the TV screen, watching Ultimate Strongman 2024, when my new hearing aids let me know that my cellphone was ringing. I jumped up, fumbled around for my cane which was in my hand all along, and bounded into the bedroom to answer it, momentarily forgetting that my phone was in my pocket.

“Yes,” I said, catching my breath and relieved to see my bed nearby.

“Are you Mr. Morrissey?”

Not recognizing the voice and suspicious of a scam, I said, “Yes … and if you try selling me something, I’ll hang up.” After an awkward pause, I added, “How do I even know this call is legit? Here’s a test: what’s my full name?”

“You’re Bob Morrissey from Montreal?”

“How do you spell it?”

“M-O-N-T- …”

“No,” I snapped. “I mean my name.”

“B-O-B.”

“No, my last name.”

At that point, I heard papers shuffling, followed by his correct spelling of my last name — two Rs and two Esses.

That was followed by, “Look, it’s Dr. Mucus. Don’t you remember me?”

Aha, the doctor who did the biopsy on my nose over two months ago. The boogerman.

“I’m phoning to tell you a little bit of cancer has returned. Although it’s pretty non-invasive, we still have to deal with it. The doctor who’ll do the operation will phone you with an appointment, and a few days later I’ll do the reconstruction.”

The reconstruction? Come again? I checked my hearing aids to see if they were inserted properly, and they were. Occasionally, I’ll put them in backwards and I end up looking like I’m wearing cheap earrings.

I thanked the doctor for his update and then, as usual, I immediately overreacted. “Life isn’t fair,” I groaned. “Why do bad things happen to good people? What did I do to deserve this — other than not use sunscreen? And why have the Habs stopped forechecking?”

Yes, my 81-year-old mind was wandering.

Then I thought back to the steps I’d taken leading to Dr. Mucus’s phone call — the visit to my dermatologist and two ENTs; the phone call from the doctor’s assistant, telling me she had received my referral and it was all systems go. After exchanging pleasantries, she said, “What the doctor needs now is a list of your medications. Can you email it to me?”

“You’ll have it by the end of the day,” I said.

I drew up the list that afternoon after a little unscheduled snooze — and then had an idea. Why not use my tablet to email the doctor a close-up shot of the ugly, festering growth on the tip of my nose? And for the “headline”, I’d write in bold type, “No, this is NOT Brad Pitt.”

A few days later, a receptionist phoned with my appointment. Before hanging up, she said, “By the way, you gave everyone up here a good laugh with that picture.”

Three weeks later, I was led into the doctor’s examination room for my biopsy. I must have appeared completely frazzled after waiting over an hour in a car lineup leading to the hospital’s underground garage; getting lost in a maze of hallways and elevators while looking for Dr. Mucus’s office on the ninth floor; and last but certainly not least, almost being turned away because my hospital card had expired.

As I waited for the doctor, I tried to relax. My temples were throbbing; my jaw tense. I had dry mouth. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. I checked my pulse. It didn’t help that I did all this while reeking of perspiration after all my running around.

When the pudgy Dr. Mucus marched in, he took one look at me and said, smiling, “You’re right, you DON’T look like Brad Pitt.”

He then proceeded to examine my nose, by now frozen after a needle, and did the biopsy. One stitch was needed to close the puncture.

“That’s it for now,” he said. “I’ll phone you with the results as soon as they come in.”

As I was getting up to leave, Dr. Mucus, gently using his hand on my chest to prevent me from exiting his chair, whispered, “Um, it’s about your list of medications. Veelo Booster Male Enhancement? Really? At your age?”

I smiled … and waited.

Then, “Does it really work?”

I didn’t answer.

“Look, I’m not asking for myself, it’s for my assistant.”

“No, you’re just being nosey,” I said.

“Hey, what can I say? Noses are a part of my job … and boy, do you ever stink!”