Bethanne Patrick

My Own Literary Maladies

You, like me, may have read "My Literary Malady," Geoff Nicholson's delightful essay about his recently diagnosed gout in this past Sunday's NYTBR. 

Nicholson actually read up on his problem after his doctor explained it to him, which is quite sensible. 

I am anything but sensible, as Mr. Bethanne would tell you, and exquisitely prone to that modern syndrome of cyberchondria. Any Internet story about "symptoms to watch for" or "new risk for women" can send me down the rabbit hole looking for sites to confirm that I am stricken. However, I digress...

Before the Internet, literature fulfilled my neurotic need. Convinced I was going to die like Camille, I related to each character's suffering as if it were my own. Any Dickens character who coughed reminded me of my own lungs, weakened from childhood bouts of bronchitis. Any day I might accidentally inhale some fiberglass from the insulation under our eaves that my parents kept warning me about and lapse into a shallow-breathed coma.

Of course, that doesn't even count the characters in great, mysterious pain from hideous end-stage diseases that no one could name, gasping out last words and squeezing out last tears. If no one had known about their illnesses, how would I be able to self-diagnose mine? 

I was an obedient child, but not an easy one.

What were your own favorite malades imaginaires moments? They can be serious, or absurd: Post-partum depression a la "The Yellow Wallpaper," or Ignatius Reilly's struggles with his pyloric valve.

Posted by Bethanne Patrick on August 5, 2008 | Comments (3)