I told them I was ill

In the interest of balance (whatever that might be!) I came across this in a very funny book by John O'Connell called "I Told Them I Was Ill" which should bring good cheer to the hypochondriacs amongst us:

"I am 33 years old. Height just over six foot. Weight: ten and a half stone. Waist size: 32 on a good day. I have never been seriously ill or had an operation that required a general anaesthetic. I'm not allergic to anything that I know of, apart from magical realist novels, films starring Kate Beckinsale, and group holidays in rented villas.

Increasingly though, I worry. I worry about illness and death. I was born two months premature, an identical twin. My brother Richard died of respiratory failure after three days. When my parents brought me home from the hospital my bones were still so soft that my mother had to keep turning me over in my Moses basket so that my face didn't slip out of shape. One night she fell into a deep sleep and forgot. To this day she maintains that my face is lop-sided. I maintain, pace [William] Blake, that symmetry is fearful.

None of this augured well. But look! - here I am against the odds.

Do I live healthily ? Kind of. But this healthy living is passive rather than active. It consists of not doing things (eating junk food, smoking, drinking to excess) rather than doing them (exercise). And apparently this is not good enough, not anymore, not at my age.

'You never exercise' says my wife, who does exercise three times a week. She hires a personal trainer - a witty tri-athelete called Helen. Helen comes to our house in the morning, early. When she knocks I shuffle to the door in my dressing-gown, coffee in hand. Then I call upstairs: 'Whippet woman's here!' 'Don't call her that!' 'What ? Who ?' 'Helen. Don't call her whippet woman!' 'Why not ?' 'It isn't nice.'

I let Helen in. 'Hello' says Helen, all smiles. 'How are you ?' Cathy skips down the stairs dressed for action. She tells Helen: 'he's worrying about his health again.' Helen turns towards me. 'It was your prostate wasn't it ?' Cathy rolls her eyes. 'Last month, yeah.' Helen, a sensible woman, has no wish to get caught up in some tedious micro-spat; but in the end her urge to be polite gets the better of her. 'What's the worry now ?' Cathy answers before I can. 'He's had a spot on his chest but he popped it and it went septic. Now it won't heal.'

This is fairly accurate. But it isn't the whole story. The whole story ?... Well that's a different matter. The whole story of my spot is a passable introduction to a bigger story, whose erratic, tacchycardiac rythmns compel more of us than we might care to admit: the story of hypochondria."

I Told You I Was Ill: Adventures in Hypochondria by John O'Connell (2005)

Published by Sort Books (London).