Two weeks ago I had a CT scan to see what’s going on inside my chest cavity. You know those pesky tumors have a way of popping back up when you least expect them. Last week I received the results of that aforementioned CT scan. “Mr. McCullough all is clear,” said the young Emory fellow. I thought about asking the Doctor to drop the formality and call me John, but after far too many visits to healthcare facilities over the past year, I’ve pretty much given up.
I guess it’s part of the caregivers’ training to refrain from using first names. I get that, but I figure by the time you’ve drawn my blood, poked around inside my chest, inserted tubes (in certain places, fellas, I hope you never need to have tubes inserted) and pretty much come to know me better than some of my closest friends, you’d think that would put us on a first name basis.
I have the utmost respect for the men and women who’ve busted their tails to get that M.D. after their name, so it’s only fitting to show that respect by calling them Doctor. But me, I’m just a city boy, born and raised in South Detr … I mean South Jersey . There’s no need for the fancy, highfalutin Mister title!
Way back when, I was John-John (much like every kid named John who was born around the same time as JFK Jr.). Now, fast forward four decades and for the past year, I can’t get people to stop calling me Mr. McCullough!
Oh well, given the events of the past year, if this is all I have to worry about, I’ll take it! Besides, as long as you’re giving me good news, you can call me whatever you like!