In Which I Try To Be Understood (But Fail)

Many years ago, I made the most god-awful comment to a friend that resolutely established two things: one, my deft ability at firmly lodging my goddam feet (plural) in my big fat mouth, and two, cement the fact that I can be a foolish bastard.

Meeting said friend for coffee one afternoon, she arrived late and looked all forlorn. Making jokes at her propensity for not being on time and the seemingly endless excuses she often dished out, our conversation went something like this:

“Glad that you could make it.”

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“Where were you this time?”

“At the hospital.”

“Oh really? Shopping for a hospital gown?”

“No. I was visiting my sister.”

“Why? She’s not sick. That girl’s always complaining about something. She’s a hypochondriac. What she say she got this time? Cancer, I suppose.”

Silence. Followed by tears.

The following day, I went to the hospital and visited my friend’s sister. She was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She's now fully recovered.

I share this tale because I want you to know that I still clearly remember the day when I woefully let my mouth run away from me. No, after that day, I learnt my lesson; that when it comes to someone’s health, it’s not a joking matter.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been nursing a sore stomach. A temperamental belly is nothing new after being diagnosed with gastritis more than a decade ago. At times, eating proves to be a gastronomy spot of Russian roulette. Ingest the wrong thing and I’m in for hours of cramping, debilitating pain. But I’ve become pretty good at playing the game.

The pain I felt more recently, however, was different. Granted the usual symptoms were present – indigestion, spasms, lower back pain, lethargy – and I immediately took the same course of action – antacid tablets, antispasmodic pills, herbal tea, homeopathic creams – but nothing helped. By late afternoon of the attack, the pain moved to my lower right abdomen and I doubled over in pain every time pressure was applied in the area. Stubbornly, I refused to go to the hospital. The next day, I went to see a doctor whose indifferent bedside manner produced the brilliant diagnosis that it wasn’t a serious enough condition to warrant further tests, promptly prescribed pain killers and then sent me home for bed rest.

Clearly gutted (no pun intended) by the experience, I made the mistake of posting a status update on Facebook. Stupid. I don’t know what upset me more; the comments that others had left behind, dripping with jibes and jeers for my own supposed hypochondriac tendencies, or the fact that these were people who should know better. I decided that both were equally disappointing.

Granted, Facebook was not the best place to air my frustrations, but I needed to vent; and as impersonal as it may sound, they were real friends, real people. I assumed that I’d have at least some sympathisers amongst them. Obviously, my own sarcastic nature had bred some equally sardonic company. In the end, I decided to delete the whole thing.

Look, I don’t really know if I have a point here. I just know that for the very first time, I was genuinely scared that something seriously bad was going to happen to me. Even now, I still don't know what's wrong with me. I'm angry, frustrated and feeling completely misunderstood. It's all a big joke.

But I’ll tell you one thing: I'm scheduled for an ultrasound and gastrocopy exam this week. Once I get the results and they find that I have, oh say, stomach cancer, guess which foolish bastards will be sorry then?

Yes, that would teach them.