© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 48
For last few weeks the only sensation that my palate recognized was the burn of chili, and only from the stronger variant at that. Garlic had no charm, nor anything less subtle. Finally, my nose has said adieu to the box of tissues, and I can taste things again. I don’t have to stop and wipe the keyboard after every sneeze. I have just finished with this winter’s dose of flu.
Like all men, and here I mean men in the most gratuitously hairy, belching, biological sense of the word, I am no good at being bed bound. If I lost a hand, I’d probably brush the paramedics aside, hunt around for the duct tape and show off later. If you are a guy, you will know instinctively what I mean. If you are a woman, you have probably seen this sort of machismo before.
I am not particularly good at dealing with the flu. I know how to sneeze, sniff, cough, complain and feel sorry for myself, even to the extent of using this column as a silly attempt to get belated sympathy. Beyond that, there are a couple of things that you can buy off the shelves in the local supermarket. I don’t really use them all that much though: I hoard the stuff just in case things get really serious, like an Ebola outbreak or an unexpected attack of West Nile Fever.
Do I lie in bed? Occasionally, for half an afternoon. But there’s always a sense of guilt compounded by something to be done that is far more important than actually being sick. When I do get sent home, I usually end up doing the dishes or something that I know is more useful and interesting than lying around feeling ill.
As I said, I’m not good at staying in bed. By the same token, I have some problems understanding people who get sick. I acknowledge that there are people who are in serious trouble and need all the rest, medicine and doctors they can get. What I really don’t understand is people who take to their beds for a week at the drop of a box of Kleenex.
Some people seem to enjoy being sick. When a cold starts doing the rounds, they are the first ones to visit the doctor, and somehow they always seem to find the sympathetic ones who keep stocks of pre-written, three-day sick notes.
This type of person always has medication handy, and a medical aid fund that never runs out. If someone collapses at the theater and an usher asks if there is a doctor in the house, this is the person who stands up and offers an extra strong painkiller. If someone falls over on the street, this character has a convenient IV drip left over from last year, tucked in some corner of a handbag or briefcase.
Hypochondria seems to be a modern malady. No doubt it is brought about by a plentiful supply of doctors and the sort of medical literature that is written in heart-rending stories of suffering and misery in those cheap magazines that you buy at the check-out counter of the supermarket, but swear you never, ever read.
Back in the good old days, when an anaesthetic involved the last rites, a bottle of strong alcohol and a rubber mallet, nobody dared complain about feeling under the weather. When you got sick the neighbours came around, painted a red cross on your door, and a cart full of bodies started arriving every morning to ask if you had anything for collection.
Of course, we live longer now, and perhaps hypochondria has something to do with it. One of the tenets of evolution involves survival of the fittest. Perhaps we could expand on the theory and add ‘survival of the most paranoid’.
Paranoia has its uses. Perhaps that twitching tic under your eye or the persistent cramp in your left foot really is cause for concern. Brain tumours are not uncommon. Parkinson’s Disease has been known to afflict young, healthy people. And there is no truth in the rumour that I was paid to write this sentence by a bunch of giggling neurologists.
Hypochondriacs have their uses as well. How would we know how much we have to be thankful for and how much we enjoy living, if not for their persistent complaints. Bless you all and have another aspirin!
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