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I am currently dying of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, beloved of hypochondriacs because its symptoms are very vague and it often isn't detected until it is quite advanced, and liver failure, precipitated by a bout of suicidally heavy drinking... ten years ago. The fact that I had a complete blood panel three years ago, and that my liver was deemed to be in perfect working order, does not matter a bit, of course. I am also concerned about that lump in my mouth and the fact that my knees keep going all tingly for no apparent reason, but that's probably the NHL.
This sort of thing also runs in my family. My father cannot go two months without getting some organ or other scanned. My brother has suffered from a vague suspicion that his heart was going to explode for no reason for years, but his hypochondria manifests most readily in his fear of flying; instead of obsessing about tingly knees, he obsesses about unexpected rattly noises.
Coffee is a killer, a hypochondriac panic attack in a cup. (I drink it anyway.) Xanax helps tremendously. So does spending a lot of money on emergency room visits; the only thing that reliably cures my symptoms is sitting in an emergency room. But the single best medicine is pointing and laughing at one's own gloriously fucked-up, ridiculous self. That and reading articles like this one.
