Dear Amritsar,
I suffer from cyberchondria – no, not an attraction to entering into online chats with women who have vaguely sounding black names that they’ve made up. Well, not primarily that, in any case. Cyberchondria happens when you start to feel symptoms of a disease after you read about it on the Internet. As you might imagine, it’s a real pain (not unlike that pun – sorry). I mean, I want to be healthy as much as the next woman (as long as the next woman wants to be as healthy as I do), but I just can’t seem to help myself.
What is the latest research on a cure?
Molly B. Denim
Hey, Babe,
The relationship between the mind and the body is almost as complicated as the relationship between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and not nearly as interesting. Before I get too deep into it, however, I have to ask: how has your cyberchondria actually manifested?
Dear Amritsar,
Asking a question with a question – you would make a good Jewish mother (and, my condolences if you already are one, although who am I to judge somebody else’s career path?).
One day, I was looking for a recipe for cardamom and cantaloupe quiche when I innocently clicked on a link to a World Health Organization report on Ebola. It happens. And, when I say it happens, I really mean ewwwwww! That’s some nasty stuff, there – I’m not surprised that people don’t want to catch it!
Anyway, not three weeks later, I started to sniffle. The sniffles turned to sneezes and, before I knew what was happening (I haven’t followed the daily news since John Wayne died – I think that’s better for all concerned), I was bedridden with a terrible fever.
So. Latest on finding a cure?
Molly B. Denim
Hey, Babe,
Umm, yeah. No. See, to have cyberchondria, you have to start exhibiting symptoms of the illness you read about. It sounds to me like you just had a cold. A cold can be an annoyance, but it is not Ebola (unless the cold causes your head to explode, although that could also happen because you have cronenbergchondria).
Drink a lot. Get plenty of rest. Stop watching The Green Berets. In a few days, you should be fine.
Dear Amritsar,
No, no, you don’t understand. I’ve got cyberchondria – I’m sure of it! Maybe another example will convince you.
One day, I was looking through Stud Central (strictly in the name of research, you understand), when I in all innocence clicked on a link that took me to a page that described the Black Death. It was horrible! Thirty to 60 per cent of Europe was wiped out! I suspect it may not have been as deadly if it had been called “The Pink Death,” but, of course, black goes well with everything, so who could begrudge the disease its sense of fashion?
Umm, yeah. Anyway, the next day – the very next day, mind, not six, 17 or 28 days later – I was building a water slide in my daughter’s bedroom when I smacked my thumb with a hammer. I saw stars – and I’m not talking Robert Pattinson or Shailene Woodley, either! It hurt like a son of a bi – something that really, really hurts. At one point, I thought the nail, which was blacker than the chamber where Dick Cheney keeps his heart, was going to fall off. I’ve seen that movie, too – ewwwwww squared!
So, about this cyberchondria thing – you gonna tell me about the latest on a cure or what?
Molly B. Denim
Hey, Babe,
Yeah. But, no. Seriously, this time. The Black Death was transmitted by contact with people and animals that were infected, not by stray hammers. And, it was fatal. And, it hasn’t been around for 300 years.
It sounds to me like you have wannachondria. No, that’s not a desire to be comedian Sykes (although, who wouldn’t want to be?); it’s a longing to have cyberchondria. If this is the case, my advice to you would be to reconcile yourself to the horrible fate of having a long, healthy life.
Dear Amritsar,
You’re no fun.
Molly B. Denim
Hey, Babe,
I have been told.
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service’s sex, love and technology columnist at questions@lespagesauxfolles.ca. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: Frottage is not the French word for cheese. Henh henh. It cracks me up every time I think of it.