Mr. Sunshine

I came up with a name for him by my second day of work, "Mr Sunshine".

He's a tall man, I would gauge him to be at least 6"4 in his late 30's. His outfit of choice is a pair of running shorts, white sneakers and any assortment of t-shirts that have seen better days. He sports a shaved head, whether that is from chemo or by choice I don't know; his face swathed in a permanent five o'clock shadow.

Every patient that comes through our doors is bound to be having a tough time; going through the kind of struggle that I can't even fathom with my cancer-free body. The surprising thing is how friendly and jovial 99% of them are, it blows me away. They come up to my desk always ready with a joke, or quip, all smiles and hellos. Mr Sunshine draws a severe contrast.

You can feel the air change when he walks through the door, his posture hunched and angry, his eyes scrunched up in a permanent squint. He slams his booking card down on the counter and grunts, avoiding all eye contact if at all possible. I am lucky if he sticks around long enough for me to give him the time for his next appointment. Any communication he has is through hoarse whispers, and finger pointing.

I figured he must have laryngeal cancer or something to that effect. The strange thing is that his wife is lovely; a petite brunette with a willing smile and caring demeanor, any of his tainted interaction with the outside world seems to roll right off her.

The other day when I was checking him in, I took a closer look at his diagnosis, I was correct in guessing laryngeal cancer, I looked over to one of the other columns on my computer screen and saw the word, palliative. I guess if I found out I had in incurable cancer and was dying I would be angry too.

I still don't relish the thought of dealing with his sunny disposition on a daily basis, but at least I understand a bit better where it is coming from.