I celebrate myself, and sing myself.

I’ve been patting myself on the back so hard the last few days I feel like an auto-erotic respiratory therapist. Here’s the story:

A young guy comes in to our clinic with some complaints of who-knows-the-fuck-what (I’m a pathologist, do you actually think I know the patient’s history? Please.). Anyhoo, he gets a needle biopsy of a retroperitoneal mass they find on a CT scan. The case is assigned to one of our pathologists - a smart and experienced fellow from the old country. He’s not sure what it is and he shows the case around to several other pathologists who are stumped and ultimately the case is sent to an outside, nationally recognized “expert” for an opinion. So, the case is stained-up the wazoo (we have certain markers called immunohistochemical stains that will highlight specific cell types – aiding in classification of tumor type) and shown to everyone on Earth who knows anything about pathology (I’ve told myself one million times: do not exaggerate!). Well, no one has a good idea of what it is but several theories / guesses are floated, “clinical history” is sought from clinicians, conferences ensue and the entire world is wallowing in a morass of self-doubt and hopelessness.

Enter: me.

I was out the day the case came into the department and had not seen the slides. On their return from the “experts”, my colleague brings the case to me and puts a slide under the microscope. I glance briefly at the thinly-cut section stained pink and blue by hematoxalin and eosin. I think for a yoctosecond and declare triumphantly: “Has anyone fondled this guys nuts?”. Blank stares. Slowly, looks of understanding. And then, finally, awe. “It’s a metastatic seminoma. Go check out this guys balls.”

Another mystery solved; another life saved. “Great men are meteors that burn so that the earth may be lighted.” -Napoleon.