Who among us has not received advice as to cures, nostrums, and pan­a­ceas?

Who among us has not received more tips on secret remedies than any B-movie bookie would give while running a numbers racket?

Who among us has not been told we should have gone to this doctor or that hospital (never the one we are going to) or that it is too bad we have myeloma because the speaker knows someone – a spouse, a parent, a fifth cousin, a neighbor, a celebrity – who died of a non-specific cancer, and while it may not be myeloma, they are pretty sure it was similar and “you know, there was nothing anyone could do for him” so too bad for our luck?

Admit it, we all have. You know it. I know it. From wheatgrass juice ^[1] to flax seed to “a certain type of chemo that you can only get at Hospital X,” we have all been sitting ducks at one time or another for well-meaning (or not) comments about what we could / should do right now if we are serious about saving our lives.

After almost 11 years of myeloma, I thought I had heard it all.

I was wrong.

A few weeks ago, after my trip to the Mayo Clinic ^[2], I stopped in a small downtown store to pick up an item on hold. My husband Warren had beat me to it, and, in passing, had apparently mentioned to the storeowner that we had just returned from a medical consultation.

The merchant had misheard Warren as to the medical problem and said something to me about my asthma. No, I said, I have cancer.

Oh dear. Her face immediately took on that sad, pained look that some people get when you say the C word out loud.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

She then came closer and put her hand on my upper arm. She looked around her store (which happened to be empty) and said in a low, confidential tone, “I need to tell you something that a good friend of mine shared with me.”

Oh, trust me, I was all ears.

“There have been over 50 US presidents, and none of them has ever died of cancer.”

My immediate thought was that there have not been over 50 presidents (Obama being only the 44^th), but what popped out of my mouth was more flippant.

“So you’re saying I should run for president?”

The poor dear overlooked my sarcasm and said in a solemn whisper, “The pharmaceutical lobby has the cure but is keeping it from the public because they want to make money at your expense, but they have to allow the president to have the drug.”

I was speechless.

My mind flashed to all the ramifications of this revelation. The pharmaceutical companies must be playing both sides of the fence, because in this most Republican of counties in which I live, any chance to slam a Democrat would have already been voiced. Who knew? And clearly this benefit of being in the White House does not extend to the first ladies, as both Betty Ford and Nancy Reagan underwent mastectomies due to breast cancer during their husbands’ tenures.

I recovered my equanimity to point out that I had never met an oncologist who would not gladly stop prac­tic­ing medicine immediately if a cure for cancer – all cancers – was found. “Trust me,” I said, “There is no con­spir­a­cy to kill off over 580,000 Americans a year.”

And then I left the store before I said anything else. I was shook up, I was more than irked, and I was laughing at what I think might be called “pig ignorance,” except that pigs are pretty darn bright, as George Orwell demonstrated in Animal Farm.

A half block away, I ran into a close friend who also has cancer and shared with him the state secrets I had just been privy to. His extremely caustic and fairly obscene response was just the right antidote.

I also shared the observation online and drew a bevy of responses, the best one being from my former law partner, no slouch when it comes to witty comebacks: “No president has ever died in a zeppelin accident either. Coincidence? I think not.”

In writing this column, I rehashed the episode with Warren, who also has a sharp sense of humor. His face lit up and his grin broadened. “No wonder there are so many candidates running in 2016!”

Clearly, the lure of being guaranteed no cancer (but only for yourself, not for your spouse, not for your chil­dren) is a powerful draw. That and the zeppelin ride.