THE LAST LAUGH

Time to stop thinking!

Ihardly needed the recent enforced lockdown to worry about my health. At the best of times, I can be a hypochondriac of the highest order. My phobias were exacerbated when magazines like Reader’s Digest began running special columns dealing with health and possible cures. I read them assiduously.

And there was no doubt at all that I had every symptom described. I was mighty sick if not actually at death’s door.

“Are you having hearing problems?” asks the Digest. Of course I am. I have a buzzing, clicking and ringing in my ears like the article says. I realise that even my Dearly Beloved’s nightly snores have been sounding muted these days. I scurry to my ENT specialist now that I’m at death’s door… or near it anyway.

“Your ears can’t possibly hear all those things,” he tells me patiently, having peered into my ears for so long I wonder what he is seeing in there.

“You are fine,” he says dismissively, ignoring my affronted stare.

“And stay off the Betaserc unless necessary. You do not have crystals in your ears,” he adds wearily, anticipating my next question on vertigo.

“Is rheumatoid arthritis linked to other conditions?” continues the Digest. Need anyone ask? I ache all over.

Furthermore, I have an ankle swelling, a slight shortness of breath and a tremor in one hand just as it warns. I’m in no doubt that I have Parkinson’s. I tell my next specialist this, authoritatively.

He has known me too long. Socially as well (alas) so now he asks sternly: “How many drinks did you have last night?”

“Er... one or two, well… maybe three; but they were only wines,” I say, defensively.

“May I speak frankly?” he asks, quite unnecessarily. He is going to speak frankly anyway.

“Go on a diet, lose 10 pounds and exercise for half an hour a day. And don’t drink,” he adds.

My outrage is palpable.

“You mean, no treatment?”

“Not a thing is needed,” he tells me, cheerfully. “And any second opinion will give you the same answer.”

I flounce out and decide I’m going to live after all. That is until I get a call from an ex-pupil in London telling me something quite mind-boggling.

‘You know, Mrs. G,” says this brilliant young doctor. “I think I had the virus and was quite unaware of it.”

“So you must have been infecting your patients, surely?”

“Not really,” he says, cheerfully. “We wear masks and face shields. In any case all my patients are still very much alive, thank you. Don’t worry,” he adds.

That’s like asking the Niagara Falls to stop flowing…

He may think this way but let’s be practical. Even a tiny germ can creep out of all that masking.

To add to my deep concern, I had my ‘once in three months’ appointment with my doctor coming up. I wore two masks and could hardly breathe; but I was more concerned about his breathing habits rather than my own.

Before I entered his room, a quick peep told me he was wearing a mask. So I sidled in slowly.

“So Mrs. G, looking nice and healthy I see.” His eyes crinkle up so I presume he’s smiling. “As usual,” he adds.

“Can I catch COVID-19 simply by talking to you?” I ask, bluntly. His eyes crinkle so much they almost disappear.

“So that’s the reason for the double mask is it?” He doesn’t miss a thing.

“Hmm...” I mumble, somewhat shamefacedly.

His eyes return to normal and he gives me a very long considering look.

“Mrs. G,” he says, finally: “Stop anticipating and thinking about disaster. In fact, stop thinking at all.”

And perhaps that’s the best advice any hypochondriac can be given.