LIFE IN
HYPOCHONDRIA
Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
I am one of those people for whom the
mention of a disease is the same as a diagnosis. This is particularly true when those
public service messages come on the radio, listing the 14 signs of edema--invariably, I
have all 14 symptoms. Like this:
Public Service Announcer: "Do you have
skull apathy? Skull apathy afflicts one out of ten men who were present during atomic bomb
tests and then later fell into the Love Canal. Listen closely to these symptoms:
"Has there recently been an obvious
change in a wart or mole, such as pulsating colors or bird whistles?"
(Ohmygosh, yes! I have a mole I've been
calling Bullwinkle, because that is sort of who it looks like, and lately he seems to have
developed a funny bend in one of his legs.)
"Do you sometimes believe you can see
Al Gore talking without moving his lips?"
(Yes!)
"Do you think you are like everyone
else?"
(Doesn't everybody?)
"Do you have trouble booting Windows
95?"
(Yes!)
"Do flames shoot out of your eyes when
you are driving at night?"
(Yes! Well, sort of.)
"Are you troubled by cold sheets,
swooping bats, percussion grenades?"
(Yes Yes Yes!)
"Did you cry at the movie Titanic,
even though there were other guys in the theater?"
(Yes! Hey wait, I didn't say that.)
"If you answered yes to any of these
questions, it is probably too late to see a doctor. In fact, you probably lapsed into a
coma somewhere after the third question. Have a nice day."
Just great, now I've got skull apathy and
I'm about to go coma. I zoom home and breathlessly dial my doctor's telephone number,
assuring the receptionist that this is a life and death emergency and yes, I have
insurance.
"This is Doctor Spleensplitter."
"Doctor Spleensplitter! This is Bruce
Cameron! Thank God you answered the phone."
"Oh, I'm... I believe I picked up the
wrong line."
"Dr. Spleensplitter, I've got the top
ten reasons to have skull apathy, plus I can feel a coma coming on. You have to help
me!"
"Skull apathy?"
"Yes."
"What sort of symptoms are you
experiencing, Mr. Cameron?"
"Well, I have this mole shaped like a
moose, only lately it looks like it has developed a limp."
"Well then. Maybe you should see a
veterinarian."
"Plus, I sometimes see Al Gore using
Windows 95 without moving his lips!"
"Mr. Cameron..."
"I need some of those same pills you
gave me last time."
"Mr. Cameron, those were
placeboes."
"Yes, that's what I need, more
placeboes! Only more powerful ones."
"More powerful placeboes."
"Yes!"
"Mr. Cameron, may I ask you a very
important question?"
"Yes, I have insurance."
"No, not that. I was reviewing your
file the other day..."
"You were? Why, do you suspect I've
got something even more serious than skull apathy?"
"No, actually, it's because our staff
requested a whole new filing cabinet to put it in, and I wanted to see if there was
anything in there we could throw out. Mr. Cameron, do you realize you've complained of
nearly every malady known to man?"
"I have?"
"Plus some I'd never heard of before.
Wake Apnea. Sudden Shower Syndrome. Reverse Appendicitis. And now this new one..."
"Skull apathy?"
"Precisely. Mr. Cameron, has anyone
ever suggested to you that you might be suffering a bit of hypochondria?"
"Hypochondria? Is it serious? What are
the symptoms? Tell me straight, doc, how much time have I got?"
"No, it isn't serious at all. In fact,
a lot of people have it, in some form or another."
"So I caught it from somebody
else?"
"Mr. Cameron, hypochondria is merely a
term for people who worry obsessively that they may have some disease or affliction."
"Well, I am worried! I'm worried I
might have hypochondria! Are there any placeboes that can be used to cure it?"
"You're not understanding me, Mr.
Cameron. It isn't a real disease."
"You mean I'm sick with something
FAKE?" This opens up a whole new realm of doom that I hadn't even contemplated
before. I swallow, feeling the first trickle of a whole host of phony symptoms.
"What's next, a CAT scan? An MRI? Should I have my internal organs removed? Doc, I'm
too young to have hypochondria. I was just beginning to live life to the fullest!"
Well, maybe not to the fullest, but I had just purchased fresh batteries for the TV remote
and was looking forward to a night of crisp channel
changes. Now it seems pointless, somehow.
"Mr. Cameron, I'm afraid I'm not
making myself clear, here. There's nothing really wrong with you. You just have a morbid
obsession."
He thinks he is fooling me, with his
medical jargon, but I know what morbidity is. From the Greek word "Mortimer,"
which means death. Mortician. Post Mortem. Today I mort, yesterday I morted, tomorrow I
will have mortalized. Tomorrow.
"24 hours." I whisper.
"Mr. Cameron?"
"I appreciate you calling me,
Doc."
"Well, I didn't call you."
"Whatever. I just... having one more
day to at least put my life in order, maybe catch one last episode of Baywatch..."
"Mr. Cameron."
"Yes?"
He sighs heavily. "I'll call in a
prescription for some placeboes right away. Treated aggressively, you should be well on
your way to recovery by the end of the week."
 
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