I look at Michael Lewis and think, “Man, what a life.”
Michael Lewis looks at Walter Isaacson and thinks, “Man, what a life.”
Walter Isaacson looks at David McCullough and thinks, “Man, what a life.”
Truth is, life is limited. It can only be so great, because we are trapped by the boundaries of possibilities. As humans, we are unable to fly with a cape. We can’t shoot webs from our wrists, or blow bubbles from our eyes, or poop easter eggs. There are myriad amazing experiences but, come day’s end, there’s also a limit. Anyone who looks at, oh, Katy Perry and thinks, “I wish I were her!” is falling in love with an image, not reality. Katy Perry goes to the bathroom, pops zits, is getting divorced and spends most of her days singing the same songs over and over and over again. Today, Portland. Tomorrow, Seattle. The day after, San Jose. It must get old because, frankly, everything in life gets old.
By nearly all measures, I have a tremendous life. I am blessed with an amazing wife, and two marvelous, happy, healthy kids. I live in a cool house, always have food on the table, take sweet trips and write books for a living. Were I a 21-year-old aspiring sports writer, I’d look at Jeff Pearlman and think, “I hope that’s me one day.” (I can say this because, at 21, I did hope I’d be doing this.).
And yet … I have a huge flaw; one that, at its worst, can damn my days and bring me endless sleepless nights. Simply put, I am a hypochondriac.
Not merely a hypochondriac. A bad hypochondriac. I suffer from genuine health anxiety, so much so that, were you to visit my Wikipedia page, you’d find the phrase “finding blood in his feces after using the toilet.” That’s a direct line from this blog post, which I wrote 2 1/2 years ago. At the time, I pledged to change my life and seek therapy and refuse to drown my blessed existence in the pathetic wallowing that accompanies mystery ailments.
Alas, I have failed.
Like 2 1/2 years ago, I’ve been shitting blood. Like 2 1/2 years ago, I’ve been freaking out about shitting blood. I did the one thing no hypochondriac should do—I Googled “blood in feces” and symptoms. This, inevitably, led me to the absolute worst (and, in the mind of a hypo, obvious) conclusion: That I’m dying of colon cancer. For the past two weeks, I’ve convinced myself of my plight. I’ve imagined sitting in a hospital bed, a la Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment, saying farewell to my daughter and son. I’ve thought about friends visiting me; about hospital visits; about losing 50 pounds and going through chemo. I’ve thought about my funeral, and my wife marrying someone else, and about my kids calling him, “Dad.” This has all run through my head, and through my head, and through my head—because I’m fucked up.
So today, at long last, I visited the doctor. I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist, and arrived at 9:30 for my inevitable death sentence. As soon as I walked in the doors, I thought to myself, “Uh, I’ve been here.” Which is really, really telling, in that I’ve been to enough doctors that I didn’t even recall seeing him before. He walked in and said, “So, are you a new patient?” Embarrassed, I mumbled, “Yes.”
He asked about my symptoms—bleeding, some nausea—then asked a bunch of questions. I tend to think of these of the hypo’s list of shame:
“Do you drink?”
“Do you take any medication?”
“Have you ever had any surgeries?”
“Do you have any family history of colon problems?”
He proceeded to do his examination—not fun, for the record. I expected him to tell me he’d need to conduct a colonoscopy. He didn’t. “Honestly, I think it’s probably hemorrhoids,” he said, before prescribing me some basic meds. “Come back in two weeks and we’ll see if anything’s changed.”
Initially, I was filled with joy. I’m (probably) not on my death bed! I’m alive! I’m healthy! But then, midway through, I stopped. It was the same ol’ same ol’ pattern: Convince self of death, see doctor, cured, happiness, repeat in four months. I can’t be this way anymore; can’t continue to live in such a pathetic and unhealthy manner.
Hence, I’m coming strong with my New Year’s resolution: 2012 will be the year of the hypochondriac.
Or, to be more precise, of killing him once and for all.