Thursday will just have to do.
And I will just have to cope until then.
This shouldn’t be too hard. As long as I can stop myself from obsessively looking up my symptoms on the Internet, I should be fine.
By the time Thursday morning rolls around, I am a complete wreck.
In the past two nights I think I’ve had about three hours of decent sleep. The rest of my time in bed has been spent tossing and turning. Snoregasbord tells me that I’ve been less restful in my bed than a vampire with a clove of garlic shoved up his arse.
I’ve also come to the clear and precise conclusion that I have a disease called Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia.
Yep. That’s what I’ve got.
That’s the only conclusion I can possibly draw, having narrowed it down from every available option during the solid ten hours of research I’ve done in the past two days.
Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia is not a type of cancer, you’ll be delighted to know. Nor is it fatal, which is even better.
No, Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia is a disease that only three people have ever experienced. All of them are still alive, and suffering in constant agony somewhere clean and clinical, and out of sight of the public.
And it’s definitely what I’ve got too. I am the fourth person.
All of my symptoms fit the early stages of what I’m going to refer to now as STD, which is a lot easier to say, even if it does sound like I’ve come down with a dose of the clap.
In stage two of STD, you develop vast and uncomfortable rashes across 90 per cent of your body. I can already feel a slight itch under one armpit, so it’s started already for me.
Stage three involves abscesses forming across your body that erupt with a noxious-smelling pus after two or three weeks, so there’s that to look forward to.
And then in stage four of STD, your nerve endings start to fire constantly and randomly, causing wracking pain to shoot through your body on a daily basis, which can only be kept at bay by the hardest of hard painkilling drugs.
The three people who suffer from STD have all tried to commit suicide at one point or another. It truly is a delightful disease to have, and I’m very much looking forward to the doctor attempting to break the bad news to me in a way that doesn’t make it seem like my life is going to be a constant and unremitting hell – until I eventually feel the sweet embrace of death.
Mind you, if there’s anyone in this world who can break that kind of bad news in a way that doesn’t make you want to jump out of the nearest plate-glass window, it’s Dr Hu.
Yes. That’s his real name. Let’s try to all move past it as quickly as possible, shall we?
Dr Hu has been my GP for the past three years, since he moved to my local practice – and the country – from his native Hong Kong.
He’s a lovely man. Softly spoken and unshakeably calm, he sounds like the wisest of wise old Chinese gurus – even though he’s forty-three and hasn’t even started to go grey yet.
Unfortunate coincidental name aside (which I’m not going to highlight again, so stop thinking there’s any gags about phone boxes or screwdrivers homing into view over the horizon), Dr Hu is everything you’d want in a physician.
If I’m going to be told that I have STD, then this is the man I want to hear it from.
And just look how calm he is! Even after giving me a thorough examination and taking copious notes about all of my symptoms.
The poor man must be dying inside at the prospect of having to break the bad news to me, but he’s managing to keep it all internalised, bless him, so as not to disturb me too much.
What a lovely man.
Dr Hu sits tapping his pen on the desk for a few minutes, looking over those notes with a thoughtful look on his face.
Eventually, he speaks.
‘Well, Andrew. Those are quite the collection of nasty things you’ve managed to pick up, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘And you were right to come and visit me today. The sudden need for the toilet and the issues with your jaw could be a cause for concern.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘But I’d say that they are all part of the same overall problem.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
Here it comes.
‘I think I can confidently tell you what you’ve got.’
‘OK, Doctor.’
‘In my professional opinion . . .’
Oh God, he’s leaning forward and smiling. It must be terrible, terrible news.
I’ll have to draw up a will before I start spurting pus everywhere.
How do you draw up a will, anyway? Is there an app for it?
My heart sinks into my stomach as Dr Hu looks at me closely, trying his hardest to not come across as the angel of death he surely is.
‘Andy?’
‘Yes, Dr Hu?’
‘There’s nothing physically wrong with you.’
. . .
. . . . . .
What did he just say?
‘What did you just say?’
‘I said, there’s not really anything physically wrong with you. Not beyond the IBS anyway, which we know you’ve had for years.’
I go slack-jawed.
That’s impossible!
That’s ridiculous!
‘But, the pooing . . .’ I reply in a small voice.
‘Yes, I know,’ Dr Hu says, nodding his head sagely.
‘And the locked jaw . . .’ I add, one hand going to the side of my face. The jaw unlocked itself after the disaster at Fluidity, but it’s been painful ever since.
‘I know, Andy, I know,’ Dr Hu replies, still smiling slightly and keeping that warm, comforting expression on his face.
Damn him and his warm, comforting face!
Damn him and his sage words!
I’ve always thought Dr Hu was a brilliant physician, but he’s clearly just a crackpot with no idea of what he’s doing!
How can there be nothing medically wrong with me? There was all of the poo! And all of the pain! And all of the gottle of geering!
I have Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia, damn it! I can feel the abscesses starting to rise on my chest even as we speak!
Dr Hu holds out a hand, as if to ward off the temper tantrum I’m about to fall into. ‘Now, I’m not saying there’s nothing wrong with you, Andy, please don’t misunderstand me.’
My eyes narrow in confusion. ‘You’re not?’
‘No. It’s plain that you have multiple symptoms.’
‘Then what are you trying to say?’
‘That the issue is not with your body, but with your head . . . and more specifically, how your head is being affected by your lifestyle.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’ I ask, my tone extremely suspicious.
Dr Hu leans back in his chair. ‘You’re certainly not the first person to come into my office with these symptoms – although none of the others had quite as many as you, it has to be said.’
That’s the STD ruled out then. Maybe that itch under my arm is just where I’ve changed deodorant.
‘In my professional opinion, Andy,’ Dr Hu continues, ‘you’re suffering from a very twenty-first-century condition.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Too much technology, Andy! Too much time spent on that phone of yours.’