The hypochondriac's back

I’ve spent most of my life somewhat afraid that I’m going to contract some form of disease or another. I can’t think of any particular reason I should be; there’s no traumatic event buried in my childhood, and I’m certainly not in any sort of high-risk population. It is, basically, an unreasonable fear.

However, since dignity and checkbooks prevent me from asking a doctor every time I feel a little bit off—for example, the big toe on my right foot felt like it was permanently asleep for about two weeks—I’m left to simply wander through my imagination as to what kind of neurological disorder is setting in to slowly numb all of my limbs. In any case, my imagination is thankfully less creative than diseases.com.

It might be that I suffer from some acute form of “medical student syndrome,” whereby I self-diagnose myself with basically everything I learn about. This is why, long ago, I stopped looking up medical questions on the internet. All that every database has is a list of forty or fifty different diseases that queasy stomach might indicate, and no reasonable means for figuring out if you’re going to be fine or in the ER that afternoon.

As an ironic result, I spend most of my minor illnesses acting completely normal, letting them pass through my system without even knowing what it is. It’s a good think I’m not a medical student, though, or I’d probably make myself sick just by believing everything was a symptom.