Except for the pesky thing of a medical license, I should be a physician. I qualify by experience. This past year alone I had forty-five doctor visits, one in-patient hospital stay and one out-patient surgery. And then there were x-rays, CAT scans, MRI’s, and a spinal tap.

Add to that ninety two prescriptions written in Latin hieroglyphics. While I am wee el Latin illiterato, I have mastered the math and physics. (92pres = mucho $’s) (total pill weight = < than two laboratory mice.) Don’t tell Dean Witter, but I’m dumping my Decon stock and investing heavily in pharmaceuticals.

Insurance terminology. Got that down pat too. HMO means Human Misery Organization. Getting the doctor I wanted was slightly less difficult than choosing my parents. Getting information from my HMO wasn’t easy, but I learned one important geographical fact. The HMO’s favorite river was Denial.

Having cancer was supposed to make me understandably depressed. My doctor insisted that I try some happy pills. Never had the nerve to tell her, but I didn’t find Prozac nearly as effective as chocolate. Any woman knows that chocolate is the most powerful antidepressant on the market.