Props to special guest recapper Pamie, who wrote two whole paragraphs of this recap, all by herself! See if you can guess which ones!
A very, very, very late-middle-aged couple we'll all go to bed tonight glad we don't know walks down a hospital hallway. The woman -- let's call her Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames -- stops in her tracks in the middle of the hallway and informs the man we guess to be her husband -- let's call him Mr. Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames -- "I'm scared."
A quick shot later and we discover why, as she lies on an examination table while two hands navigate around a giant protrusion sticking out of the woman's abdomen. The hands belong to a doctor who tells her, "I'm almost done," and, from the looks of what she's contending with, so is she. The doctor, to whom the wandering hands belong, pulls Comedy Killer Deaths Like Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames's shirt back down as the woman admits, "I thought they would go away, but then they never did. They just kept growing and growing." Say, did you hear the one about cancer? No. Me neither. So, moving on.
The doctor flips open Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames's chart and notes, "I see you've had symptoms." She responds that her symptoms have been "mainly indigestion," but he counters with a note in her file that there has also been "vomiting, blood in your stool," and doubtlessly other harbingers of the very bad that render her days numbered and my lunch unfinished. The doctor asks why she didn't call him earlier, and she tells him that she knows they've been putting it off, but that "we were supposed to go to Florida to visit our son. We haven't seen him in over a year. We were gonna call you as soon as we got back, but the pain got too bad." Rather than fly off the handle and preach away as my doctors often have ("Don't you know the importance of flossing daily?" "Those drugs are supposed to be used for medical purposes only!" "I don't care what your financial situation is...you simply cannot apply to donate your eggs!" ["Well, you could apply." -- Wing Chun]), this kindly doctor is more subdued in his response, advising, "We'll just start doing some tests and hope for the best." Comedy Killer Deaths Such As Cancer Don't Yield Kitschy Nicknames volleys back by asking what "the worst" scenario might be, and the doctor point-blanks, "That these are two tumors which may have metastasized and spread." She asks him what the chances are that that's the case, and, looking up and still being able to see the Six Feet Under opening credits in her rearview mirror, probably has a pretty good idea. The doctor evades the question because he knows they both know the answer, responding, "Let's just do the tests and hope for the best." The screen fades to white as we discover that "the best" was not yet to come for Joan Morrison, who made it from 1939-2004 before submitting to any kind of a test. But, in the good news column, at least the scene didn't end with a deranged psych patient barreling into the room and clubbing the doctor to death with a brick.