Hypochondria part 2

It is not the visible ailments which bother me; the bruises and sore muscles and other afflictions of the limbs and skin. These things affect the levers and coating of the body, and can be looked at, prodded and dismissed. What I am concerned with are the more intimate rebellions of the dark damp places at the core of the body, the sticky internal revolts which cannot be gauged from close examination of the surface. What excrescences may be slowly growing across the blood-flushed surfaces there, what sudden failures of lymph might be occurring, what rampant multiplication of cells? These things are as mysterious to me as the workings of an electric circuit, and thus as prone to sudden and inexplicable breakdown.



And so I live in frightening and turbulent times. On the surface, all is calm. I wake in the morning and drink my tea, reading a recipe book, watching the football. Slowly my resentment at being conscious at this obscene hour wears off. I leave the house just before sunrise and pedal by the calm reaches of Canada Bay, all rosy and benign in the pre-dawn light, and over the mouth of the Parramatta River. I am thinking about money, our trip to Asia, a photocopy I have forgotten to make, a book I'm reading. Some days I feel stronger, some less strong. Some days there is wind and some days I need gloves to keep my fingers functioning in the cold. I take a shower, turn on the heater, sit at the computer. I sign some papers, give some advice (they are not orders in this business) and the day is over.



Superficially it is an ordinary existence. But there is another life I live where I am struck down day after day with terminal ailments: I poke at my underarms and groin, looking for unexplained swellings, obsessively fingering sore places. I watch myself for forgetfulness or lack of balance which may indicate a tumour of the brain. Any pain or abnormality is magnified into something critical. The internet assists in this; a google search of a single given symptom can provide a thousand unpleasant possibilities. My workmate (unaware of my private preoccupations) says, "Cancer always seems to start in the wet places, doesn't it? The mucous membranes, the lymph nodes, the organs." I shudder and spend the day visualising chaos in my own wet places. Then I wonder what effect the chemical accelerations of anxiety might have on this hidden activity.


Neurologically speaking, our brain is not developed enough to allow us to fully conceive of consequences or make rational decisions until we are in our twenties. I am now thirty years old, with a well-formed amygdala that allows me to consider the possibilities for the future, and I am suddenly afraid of dying.