“Who was that hot-shot doctor on call last night?” the wheezy 80-year old lady asked from her hospital bed.

“That was Dr. Daung,” I answered.

“Daung?  That’s some name.  Could you imagine having that as a name?  Sounds Chinese.”

“Well, actually –  ”

“Ding-a-ling-a-ding-dong ching-chong big dong-dong ding-dong,” she said without taking a breath.

“Uh ….”

“Some name, I tell you.  (cough).”  At which point she started to wheeze due to her two-pack-a-day-times-fifty-years end-stage emphysema.

I didn’t say anything – it was just too pathetic.  And admittedly funny in a “you are a true idiot” kind of way.  She was eighty with a dismal prognosis due to her endstage emphysema.  Do you really want that to be how anyone  remembers you?  I just couldn’t believe it.  Old school racism, like in Gran Torino, is just too stupid not to laugh at sometimes.  In the right circumstances, at least.  (Gran Torino was a really good movie, by the way.)

She continued to cough and wheeze.

“I thought these hot-shot antibiotics — were supposed to cure — my fancy-pants pneumonia,” she sputtered with ridiculous descriptors.  Maybe it was a subconscious habit to slow down the expiratory phase of her breathing, like these lung patients do.

“They seemed to be working pretty well until the whole ‘dong’ thing,” I couldn’t help pointing out.

“Yeah, I was rambling — too much.”

“I think so.  Take some slow breaths….”

Eventually she calmed down, and we got back to business.

“I think we should talk about your CPR status…,” I began.