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Abstract

in his carapace of hypochondria.But, as I say, on holiday he forgets to bring his ailments. He doesn’t even put acetaminophen in his wash bag. He enjoys a week or two without recourse to a headache or reference to his ‘screwed up system’ which has something to do with his stomach, and forgoes lying down in damp rooms with dark cloths over his forehead, intoning, ‘I’ve got all the symptoms of (insert illness du jour).’We cycled every day and our luggage went on ahead of us in the back of a taxi. It was delightful: each day filled with map reading and cycle trails. We passed fields of wheat whose sturdy green leaves flopped and waved above our heads, and trailed through meadows of yellow rapeseed, stopping for morning coffee or afternoon tea at quaint ramparted towns where fountains splayed silver water and sinuous cats wrapped their bodies around the legs of the café tables.It was all going swimmingly, as they say, until he had a flare-up in the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology, specifically at the Ötzi the Iceman exhibition. He took umbrage that this man Ötzi, who he said had done nothing but die and get preserved under huge amounts of ice for a very long time, had got his own exhibition in the museum.Ötzi the Iceman lies in a special, environmentally controlled chamber. You can see him through a viewing window if you join the queue waiting to shuffle past and pay their respects. It was this homage that piqued my husband.‘You could lie in a chamber,’ I suggested. ‘People could file past you and marvel at the medical phenomenon you present. There could be a ticker-tape above the chamber highlighting your current ailments. You could be:Greg, The Illness Man.’His eyes glittered in excitement.Like I said, impervious.On to Trento, the longest and most arduous 75km stretch, along never-ending vistas of cycle paths that stretched through endless apple orchards, beside the fast-flowing green river, past pink hibiscus flowers, their blooms as large and intricate as dinner plates. It was very hot and the fierce wind that blew against us seemed to disperse his outburst; not a sniffle or a whinge ensued.On the final evening of the trip, we gave our cycles back to the holiday company and packed our bags, ready for our

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morning departure. I suppose it was the gearing up for going home that triggered his hypochondriacal reflexes.We had eaten pizza and quaffed glasses of thick red wine in one of those glorious little brick-oven Italian trattorias, and were strolling the piazza in search of gelato.We drifted down a street that led away from the piazza when on the opposite side we noticed a hubbub. An ambulance had parked. Two paramedics were on the pavement and lying between them was a woman. One paramedic held a drip attached to the woman’s arm. As expected, a clump of people mingled nearby and I think it was these spectators that did it.My husband stopped. Feet planted, hands on hips, he frowned and some deep reflex stirred. Like a sleeper surfacing from a dream to reality, his raison d’être came flooding back to him. What was he doing, strolling without as much as an ingrown toenail, or a bout of strep-throat, or a dose of mononucleosis? How had he let himself slip so far from his beloved acetaminophen?‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. If anyone needs to be on that pavement with those paramedics, it’s me.’ He poked his chest. ‘I’m a very sick man.’He had drip envy.He brushed away my suggestions that perhaps the poor woman had had an accident, heat stroke or a heart attack.‘She’s a phoney,’ he said. ‘She can’t possibly be as ill as me. No one is as ill as me.’He put his hand to his head. ‘Where’s the nearest pharmacy? I think I’m coming down with something.’So we wandered in search of that icon, that beacon, that boon of all hypochondriacs: the green cross.He gave the woman in the white coat behind the counter a pantomime of symptoms, grabbing his neck, wiping his brow, jiggling his hands in front of his stomach and, with two fingers, producing a gagging sound.He left the store clutching a care package of drugs and nasal sprays and lotions, their Italian names adding a frisson to what was already a hallowed purchase.Looking like a man who had settled back into his rightful and just groove, the cogs and gears of his fundamental impulses had clicked back into place. He was a hypochondriac once more.The holiday was over.</article></body>

Travels with my Hypochondriac

A. K. A. My Husband

It’s a well-known fact that when you go on holiday, your normal defences lower. Unless you are touring Los Cabos in Mexico — which in 2020 had the highest murder rate of any city in the world — you assume your new surroundings are safe and congenial. Yes, you will probably be on guard for pick-pockets and cars, if they drive on the opposite side of the road, but on the whole holidays are an opportunity to lower our natural defences.

However, few people know or have the chance to observe, as I have, that it’s the same with hypochondria. I know this because whenever we go on holiday, my husband leaves his hypochondriacal tendencies at home.

The realisation of this dawned on me a few years back when we went to Northern Italy — the area known as Trentino — for a cycling holiday.

My husband is healthy and fit, except of course that he suffers all ailments worse than anyone ever has or ever will suffer. This is born out in ways beyond the obvious. For example, he has a tendency to skulk around the drawer in the kitchen that houses our first aid supplies. Soon there comes a rustling sound as he peels the foil off two Nurofen or acetaminophen (What a word, six syllables, guaranteed to lift the spirits of any hypochondriac). Frustratingly, whenever I have a headache — rare for me — there are never any painkillers, only empty blister packs.

In the past, he has had several illnesses he has almost died from and several that he has actually died from, including a nasty bout of Trachycarpus fortunei.

‘Did you go green and spikey?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Now you come to mention it, those were the major symptoms.’ (He’s scrupulous with symptoms, Googles them to ensure he has the right ones.)

So rapt is he with his ailments — exotic and pedestrian — that you can lob all kinds of irony and sarcasm and he remains impervious in his carapace of hypochondria.

But, as I say, on holiday he forgets to bring his ailments. He doesn’t even put acetaminophen in his wash bag. He enjoys a week or two without recourse to a headache or reference to his ‘screwed up system’ which has something to do with his stomach, and forgoes lying down in damp rooms with dark cloths over his forehead, intoning, ‘I’ve got all the symptoms of (insert illness du jour).’

We cycled every day and our luggage went on ahead of us in the back of a taxi. It was delightful: each day filled with map reading and cycle trails. We passed fields of wheat whose sturdy green leaves flopped and waved above our heads, and trailed through meadows of yellow rapeseed, stopping for morning coffee or afternoon tea at quaint ramparted towns where fountains splayed silver water and sinuous cats wrapped their bodies around the legs of the café tables.

It was all going swimmingly, as they say, until he had a flare-up in the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology, specifically at the Ötzi the Iceman exhibition. He took umbrage that this man Ötzi, who he said had done nothing but die and get preserved under huge amounts of ice for a very long time, had got his own exhibition in the museum.

Ötzi the Iceman lies in a special, environmentally controlled chamber. You can see him through a viewing window if you join the queue waiting to shuffle past and pay their respects. It was this homage that piqued my husband.

‘You could lie in a chamber,’ I suggested. ‘People could file past you and marvel at the medical phenomenon you present. There could be a ticker-tape above the chamber highlighting your current ailments. You could be:

Greg, The Illness Man.’

His eyes glittered in excitement.

Like I said, impervious.

On to Trento, the longest and most arduous 75km stretch, along never-ending vistas of cycle paths that stretched through endless apple orchards, beside the fast-flowing green river, past pink hibiscus flowers, their blooms as large and intricate as dinner plates. It was very hot and the fierce wind that blew against us seemed to disperse his outburst; not a sniffle or a whinge ensued.

On the final evening of the trip, we gave our cycles back to the holiday company and packed our bags, ready for our morning departure. I suppose it was the gearing up for going home that triggered his hypochondriacal reflexes.

We had eaten pizza and quaffed glasses of thick red wine in one of those glorious little brick-oven Italian trattorias, and were strolling the piazza in search of gelato.

We drifted down a street that led away from the piazza when on the opposite side we noticed a hubbub. An ambulance had parked. Two paramedics were on the pavement and lying between them was a woman. One paramedic held a drip attached to the woman’s arm. As expected, a clump of people mingled nearby and I think it was these spectators that did it.

My husband stopped. Feet planted, hands on hips, he frowned and some deep reflex stirred. Like a sleeper surfacing from a dream to reality, his raison d’être came flooding back to him. What was he doing, strolling without as much as an ingrown toenail, or a bout of strep-throat, or a dose of mononucleosis? How had he let himself slip so far from his beloved acetaminophen?

‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. If anyone needs to be on that pavement with those paramedics, it’s me.’ He poked his chest. ‘I’m a very sick man.’

He had drip envy.

He brushed away my suggestions that perhaps the poor woman had had an accident, heat stroke or a heart attack.

‘She’s a phoney,’ he said. ‘She can’t possibly be as ill as me. No one is as ill as me.’

He put his hand to his head. ‘Where’s the nearest pharmacy? I think I’m coming down with something.’

So we wandered in search of that icon, that beacon, that boon of all hypochondriacs: the green cross.

He gave the woman in the white coat behind the counter a pantomime of symptoms, grabbing his neck, wiping his brow, jiggling his hands in front of his stomach and, with two fingers, producing a gagging sound.

He left the store clutching a care package of drugs and nasal sprays and lotions, their Italian names adding a frisson to what was already a hallowed purchase.

Looking like a man who had settled back into his rightful and just groove, the cogs and gears of his fundamental impulses had clicked back into place. He was a hypochondriac once more.

The holiday was over.