Mensch tracht, und Gott lacht

Thursday, October 27, 2005

How Do You Spell Relief?

In April 2002, I was sitting at my desk in my office at the U. of Minnesota when the phone rang. It was my physician's office, telling me that a radiologist had spotted a suspicious shadow on what until that moment had been a routine mammogram, and could I please hold while Scheduling arranged an ultrasound test.

HMOs, university medical centers, and myself being what they all are, it was three weeks later when once again, as I sat at my desk, my physician's office rang me up. The more sensitive ultrasound test had identified the potentially cancerous lump as nothing more than a pocket of adipose tissue. Clean bill of health. For three weeks I had been denying I was at all concerned. I put my head down on my desk and bawled so immoderately that my secretary ran in with a box of tissues in one hand and an airline shot of single malt scotch in the other.

Just over three weeks ago, I was driving home after dropping my daughter off at school when Ann Compton broke into the regular morning talk show with an ABC Special Report: George Bush was nominating Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court. I whimpered in impotent rage and disappointment. I knew this was bad, but didn't know it would keep getting worse, day after day after day.

This morning, I was driving home after dropping my daughter off at school when Ann Compton broke into the regular morning talk show with an ABC special report: George Bush had accepted Harriet Miers's withdrawal from consideration for a seat on the Supreme Court. I pumped my fist in the air and bellowed, "Yes! Yes!!!!" The sun shines again in the District. Tomorrow there may be bad news, but today is a day of respite. Simple common sense dictates that the relief I experience today differs not just in degree but in kind from the relief I felt at the news I did not in fact have a mortal disease. But heck if I can tell the difference.

Now where the hell's my single malt?

11 comments:

Barry Vanhoff said...

Now where the hell's my single malt?


Mmmmmm ... Glenlivet ...

Its about time someone at the ReformClub writes about something that I know a little about!

In regards to the resignation, Charles K had it right.

S. T. Karnick said...

Yes, CLA, excellent column by Krauthammer. Thanks for linking to it.

By all means, let's talk single malt!

Ever had Isle of Jura? Fabulous.

Kathy, swing by any time and we'll raise a highball glass or two. It'll be on me—figuratively, at first, and then literally. (I'm so darn clumsy!)

Barry Vanhoff said...

"It'll be on me—figuratively, at first, and then literally."

Do you have a drinking problem?

I sure do ... I can't afford to try all the single malts I'd like to!

S. T. Karnick said...

My problem exactly!

James F. Elliott said...

I recommend Van Winkle Special Reserve 12 Years Old. Or, for those with extra cash in their wallet, the 20.

S. T. Karnick said...

Thanks—I look forward to trying it. The name is a hoot, mon, as we near Halloween. Doesn't sound very Scottish, however.

Barry Vanhoff said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Barry Vanhoff said...

I understand the Van Winkle aged 20 years, but the 12 year? Did Rip have an uncle?

James F. Elliott said...

I think he's a cheapskate little brother.

Whoops. I just confirmed what I was drinking with the friend who was there at the time. Van Winkle's a bourbon, not a Scotch. Damn. Nevermind.

S. T. Karnick said...

That makes much more sense. Thanks for the clarification.

Bourbon is OK on occasion, of course, if you're on a desert island and that is all that is available.

James F. Elliott said...

Ouch, man.