Don't Believe the Hypochondria

Here are some ailments I've wondered whether I'm suffering from within the past 24 hours:

The common cold

Stroke

Flesh eating bug

Restless leg syndrome

Fractured skull

Brain hemorrhage

Skin cancer

Meningitis

Deep vein thrombosis

Arthritis of the neck

To be clear, except for one of the above, I've only considered them fleetingly. I've not gone as far as to look up the symptoms of any of these afflictions on the internet, nor have I thought about consulting a medical professional.

I know in my rational mind that I'm not suffering from any of them. I'm not worried, but these have been my initial reactions to various sensations and anomalies in and on my body. I quickly moved on, after a few seconds, to more logical self-diagnoses. Which, as any doctor will tell you, is the absolute best form of diagnosis.

This is a fairly typical day's worth of afflictions for me. I can't work out whether this makes me a hypochondriac or not. To assume that a bit of indigestion after a spicy curry is, say, a heart attack is pretty normal for me, but the assumption is long gone before I've given it enough time of day to say it out loud. 

Thinking like this is to live your life in the shock of averted catastrophe: 'OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE! ... Oops! False alarm! Sorry about that everybody, nothing to see here, carry on.'

It could be life-enhancing, living eyeball to eyeball with your own mortality, cherishing your health, realising that it could forsake you at any time. Or it could be crippling, mulling over how each discredited diagnosis might only be a temporary escape.

I don't think either end of that scale encompasses my brand of harmless hypochondria. It's merely that I like to consider something exciting and dramatic might be happening, before facing the fact that it's just the same old same old nothing. Just like life.

Conversely, the one time my mini-hypochondria might have borne fruit, I was oddly pragmatic. 

In 2005, I was rushed into hospital when a neurosurgeon though there might be something wrong in my brain. I was having debilitatingly painful headaches, and upon examination they found some blood in my spinal fluid.

It was just before Easter, and my girlfriend and I were about to spend the holiday at a hotel in the Cotswolds. All of a sudden, I was holed up in a hospital bed, surrounded by family and close friends. They tried not to, but through a veil of bravery they spoke to me differently, as if every conversation might be amongst our last, and our words were imbued with love that usually bubbles away invisibly, through fear of embarrassment.

Obviously, I survived. The doctors were confused as to what had happened, but were confident that I was in no danger. After five days in a hospital bed, being probed and examined and discussed, I was given the all clear, late on the Thursday night.

Tears were shed. And I was so relieved. That I wouldn't lose the deposit on the hotel room.