I Should've Paid More Attention to Moneyball

Although I have never been much of a sports fan, I've known a lot of baseball fans in my lifetime, some of them almost obsessive about the game. You know, the kind of person that knows the complete line up of their selected team (or teams) and can rattle off a player’s statistics -- batting average, on base percentage, runs batted in, times on base, stolen bases, earned run average, strike outs, etc., and etc., and etc., a few score times over -- like they’re reciting their phone number. 

I have never been that kind of baseball fan.

But I’m starting to realize that, by and large, cancer patients have a lot in common with obsessive baseball fans. But while baseball fans are tracking ERAs and RBIs, cancer patients are tracking tumor markers, white blood cell counts, protein levels, tumor sizes, and a host of other lab results. I can’t tell you how many cancer conversations I’ve had where people start rattling off their test results as if they were reciting their phone number. 

It’s really quite impressive, and it makes me realize that I’m not a very good cancer patient.

I should point out that nearly every visit with my PA includes a few moments where she turns the computer monitor my direction and starts walking me through all the test results. For each test she identifies what the test measures, why it's important, what the current value is, and how that compares to the multiple previous iterations. Each time I pay close attention, ask what I think are the relevant question, and try to absorb the answers and the results. Each time, as I walk from the exam room to the reception area, all of those numbers, and their importance, just drain away.

I couldn’t tell you the results of my lab tests if my life depended on it.* Apparently, I’m not that kind of cancer patient, either.

Which is sort of funny, in that the bulk of my work these days revolves around metrics and the quantitative analysis my employer’s business operations. Given this context, you’d think I’d be inclined to take a quantitative approach to my cancer treatment. Instead, I’m all about the qualitative: Do I feel good or bad? Is the cancer getting better or worse?

The fact that my gobbledegook test went from 1,023 to 1,347, even though it may be of significantly more informative value than “I feel like crap,” just doesn’t interest me. My interest begins and ends at the fact that I feel like crap.

Another downside of my sports-deficient upbringing perhaps.


* In some ways, it probably does.