<Life in Hypochandria
Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/

====> Please do NOT remove the copyright from this essay! ====

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 98?"

(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 98 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."