Confessions of a Self-Diagnosed Hypochondriac
THE TRACES HAVE always been there. Like that one time in sixth standard when I convinced myself that I was suffering from AIDS, and spent many sleepless nights tossing and turning in deep agony over an implausible disease which was incurable. What would I tell people, if they found out I had AIDS? All because of a dirty syringe. Would they think I had unsafe sex and that too with many people? Will they believe the syringe story? Won’t it sound too convenient? Life was unfair. The fear was deep-rooted and did not leave me until one night when I woke up all sweaty, boiling in temperature which threatened to go past the 105 mark. I think it went beyond it, I can’t be sure, my imagination, interchangeable with memory, is coloured. A hospital visit confirmed some minor kidney infection, nothing more than that. But of course they did not know what to check for. The kidneys were soon going to fail. They somehow didn’t. I, however, failed my Mathematics unit test. Scored all of 2 on 25. Could you blame me? I had AIDS, my organs were slowly failing and Mathematics was inconsequential.
Over time I got over AIDS, I had survived long enough without symptoms, it had to be something else. And it was. It is. Every time I get a pimple I start wondering if it is skin cancer. I blame the medically incorrect medical drama Grey’s Anatomy for that. One character had skin cancer and the symptoms were that she was seeing a ghost (hallucinations) and she had a pimple. Given that I am hallucinatory half the time, a pimple seems like a legit cause for worry. A few months back, after a serious bout of viral diarrhea when I spent a good four days in the hospital, hooked to the saline drip, my sugar level went a bit high, though still within the normal range. I was consuming glucose, it was only natural. But that convinced me that I was suffering from diabetes. I went completely off sugar for a month and then one day found myself unable to breathe and on the verge of fainting because… low blood sugar. The viral diarrhea scared me so much that a simple gas trouble that plain old farting could solve gave me cold sweats. I stopped eating, went to birthday parties and asked for cucumber salad with no lettuce (it could have worms, huh).
On occasions I think I am deaf, and think of going to a doctor. Other days I have vertigo. A small, harmless pain in the neck is spondilitis and recently, I have diagnosed myself with Alzheimer. I am convinced that I have it, I feel foggy all the time and disoriented. I forget names and words and can’t remember movie dialogs the way I could. What rung the bell though was when I couldn’t remember two of my favourite songs. It is a big deal. I am or at least I used to be (before the Alzheimer disease) a walking talking encyclopedia of old Hindi film songs. I am a shadi antakshari champion. At the age of 10, I once challenged a bus full of people to a game of antakshari and won it. My mother was proud.
Minor lumps and bumps are tumors and a boil on the breast is certainly breast cancer. I have considered mastectomy and have wondered if I’d be able to pull the look off. Not that it matters, life is more important than boobs. These days, whenever my legs hurt, I imagine my quadriplegic self. Lying on the bed, half covered in bedsores, not able to talk or blink. Not able to quiet down my rightwing relatives who are, rather loudly, discussing their majority rights, right next to my bed. I am scared of all of this. And it is no joke, living this life. It doesn’t help that I am overweight and while I’d love to slim down, I am not sure how willing I am to make the effort. This certainly complicates my case.
One beautiful morning, when my roommate fondly declared that the only thing I suffered from was hypochondria, the first thing I did was to go online and read more about the disease on WebMD. The Wikipedia article on it, like the WebMD piece, confirmed that my condition was much the same. So like a true blue hypochondriac, I added another disease to my list. However, I am not like the usual hypochondriacs. I don’t run to the doctor every second. I am scared to death of death or turning into a vegetable. I want nothing of that, but what I don’t want the most is the confirmation of my mortality. I don’t want to know I am suffering from Cancer. I know I have it; I just don’t want others to tell me that. I am perpetually in denial. And yet I have accepted my fate.
The Wiki article confirms though, there are two kinds of hypochondriacs. The ones like the legendary Woody Allen rush to the doctors for a hickey on the neck. I envision my hickey turning into a severe skin (gangrene?) infection where insects and worms would breed and feast on my skin, and because you can’t amputate the neck, I will die of it. I will die of a hickey infection. But I won’t go to the doctor. Because what if he confirms my fears?
I don’t know how to treat it. I often try telling myself that there are people suffering with worse things. I simply have gas. It doesn’t work. Because obviously, my gas isn’t just gas, it is stomach cancer. Oh I am sick, alright. My future isn’t too bright and I often wonder if I should pass on my fucked up gene to my unborn child. My mother already has given me her diabetes and her hormonal imbalances. Must the cycle continue? Do I owe it to my ancestors to keep their fucked up lineage going? I am not sure. However, with the tiny cysts beginning to get cozy in my uterus maybe I should not worry about the future child at all. She/he will be adopted, if I survive to see the day.
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