What Cancer Taught Me About Leadership: Part 2
by Matt Monge
“Put your arms over your head.”
“OK.”
“I can tell you’ve done this before.”
“First, that’s what she said. Second, yes, I’ve been through this drill before.”
Thus went the conversation this morning between the CT attendant and me. As I mentioned a couple days ago, November is a big month for me. Today was my two-years-since-having-part-of-my-kidney-hacked-out-because-of-a-cancerous-tumor CT appointment. You know, to be sure the cancer cells haven’t forgotten the not-so-subtle hint of literally having them cut out of my body. If only the cancer could grasp the symbolism, cancer would understand that I have no interest in hanging out with them anymore.
I hate these cancer checks for a couple of reasons at least. One of these reasons, as dumb as it sounds, is that I hate needles. I hate the way they look. I hate the way they feel when they go in. I hate being able to feel them inside my arm moving around. I hate everything about them.
As soon as I sit down in the chair to get the IV, I start getting light-headed and nauseous. My hands start sweating, I can’t sit still, and I think that on account of my nerves I just start rambling about anything and everything. “Hey, have you noticed that ceiling tile? What a lovely shade of off-white.”
It’s funny watching the staff try to calm down a grown man who is obviously super nervous before something that a lot of people think is a minor thing: the needle and IV. But I can’t help it. I can see the patronizing looks on their faces, but it doesn’t matter to me. I just keep on babbling. Anything to keep my mind off the nurse digging around my arm with that needle in the same way we scrape all around the sides and bottom of a peanut butter jar with our butter knives.