My doctor put down the chart and did a little happy dance.
"Does this mean I'm cured?" I ask.
"No," says the doctor. "You're not in fact, it's terminal."
"I'm going to die?"
"Yes, but not soon. In fact, it will be a long, painful, agonizing death."
"Then what's the dance for?"
"Nobody's seen what you've got before."
"Why is that good?"
"I'll get it named after me," he said. "I'll be famous."
He asked a nurse for a bottle of champagne. "Drink up, it can't hurt. At least, I don't think so."
And he toasted to my bad health.