Rodney Dangerfield (I think)
“My doctor told me I had three months to live. Then he gave me the bill. I said ‘Doc, I can’t afford this’ so he gave me another three months.”
There was a 21 Jump Street episode ages ago (I know, I know) that postulated that head hair was the best to use for drug tests, as the protein in the hair could go back years (especially for long hair), giving a good and reliable history.
Now, how reliable an '80s era teen cop drama is, I can’t say. How reliable I am, citing said '80s era teen cop drama, is an exercise I leave for the reader.
What kind of cancer?
My dad had prostate cancer maybe 15 years ago (he’s fine now). He was having a difficult time deciding on a course of treatment (or none at all) and was flying all over the Eastern Seaboard seeing various specialists.
At some point, I asked him, didn’t he have to make a decision, even if the decision was to do nothing for the moment other than keep an eye on the growth of the tumor? (It was found very early via a PSA test.) He told me, “I know, I really feel like this is hanging over me.” I asked him, “wait, isn’t it hanging under you?”
Luckily Dad still had his sense of humor.
A joke I read here a long time ago:
What did the blind deaf paraplegic boy get for Christmas?
Cancer.
If the patient has a medi-port insalled for the chemo, you ought to be able to cobble together a joke about hooking it up to a bottle of whiskey.
We made some Iron Man-themed jokes about it.
Anasthacia as well.
My grandfather didn’t stop his work as a soccer refferee until his late 80s. For many years he didn’t “referee” as such, but he collaborated with the organization, trained referees, etc. As a benefit, he got the same complete yearly medical check up as every other ref.
One day he was in excruciating pain (by the time Gramps says “this hurts,” others would be howling on the floor), so Grandma called an ambulance and had him taken to the hospital where, after a succint examination and thorough scolding, he went through 6 hours of surgery to remove his prostate. Part of the scolding was because, when the doc noticed the enlarged prostate, there was a dialog more or less like this:
Grandma: oh, it’s strange, they didn’t say anything about that in his yearly… or rather… you son of a bitch, did the doctor at the yearly say anything about your dick?
Gramps: yeah, he’s been giving me crap about having to check it for eleven years, so?
Grandma: so I’m going to kill you, you bastard!
Yeah, that’s their notion of a “term of endearment.”
The surgeon explained that if Gramps had gone in earlier, the surgery would have been a half-an-hour outpatient procedure. Of course, since they had him in anyway, they called the doctor from the refs for the yearly’s results and checked Gramps for anything they could think of (I believe they skipped the tests for Juvenile Acne, given that the patient was in his early 80s).
At one point, Auntie and Grandma were in Gramps’ room, and Grandma was going over that conversation once more. Auntie quipped that Gramps probably mistook “a growth near your dick which could be dangerous” and “your dick might be growing to dangerous sizes.” Ever since, “sonagun thinking prostate cancer makes dicks bigger” has been included in Grandma’s litany of Things I Hate About My Husband.
There’s a standup comic named Robert Schimmel who went through treatment for advanced testicular cancer. He talks about it in his act a lot. He had a special on Showtime not long ago, called Life Since Then; the last half-hour is basically cancer humor. His humor is pretty outrageously dirty (like, worse than Eddie Murphy’s standup), so be forewarned. He’s also got a book called Cancer On $5 A Day.