Hypochondria? It’s killing me.

I have to confess –and I’m embarrassed to share this with you but I feel I aught - I have died many painful deaths in my life, and from just about every ailment you can think of from testicular cancer to lock-jaw, I even had a dose of prostate cancer once that put me out for almost a week. And these phantom illnesses always seemed to strike when I was at my lowest point, when I was tired and stressed.

The testicular cancer, as a for instance, came when I was over working, over training and over thinking. I hadn’t had a holiday for two years, I was working ridicules hours and my whole body throbbed like a hammered thumb. But of all the aches that had colonised my bodily nooks-and-crannies my testicles were the worst. My logical brain was quite clear on the subject, ‘you’re just stressed’ It told me ‘and a little R&R is the only calming balm you need’.

As I said I have a history of turning aches into quakes and moles into cancerous mountains so I should have known, but this time (I convinced my self) it felt different. I was so weak and under nourished from too much work and not enough rest and play that I allowed my mind to wander into the realms of Hypochondria. Within a couple of days I had self-talked my ills into those of the terminal variety. I had cancer (again). As is always the way, once I’d decided that cancer (might) be on the agenda articles, adverts, talk shows and national campaigns – even bus stop conversations - flooded my world with unsolicited statistical breakdowns on my chances of contracting the disease. My paranoiac mind-set quickly climbed abroad a downward and slipperyslalom to imagined illness.

It wasn’t long before symptoms multiplied and hands slipped down boxers, at every given opportunity, to check for lumps, bumps, hardening, swelling and shrinkage. Perpetuated by the habit of hands-down-pants and hourly visual vigils aches became pains and normal became anomalous. Within days I was ‘testicular cancer man’. It’s only funny now in retrospect, at the time it’s diarrhea-inducingly scary.On my last bout I was so convinced I was ill that I even got 'them' out and showed my wife (oh the embarrassment!). I said, 'what do you reckon to these then?' She said 'I beg your pardon' 'These! (My testicles) I replied irritably.’ Do they look swollen to you because they feel like coconuts to me?’ She gave me one of those exasperated looks that only someone without testicles could give and said ‘Geoff your stressed. There's nothing wrong with you other than an over-active imagination.

And if you don't believe me go and see the doctor, he’ll tell you exactly the same'.Even though she’d given me the five-finger-juggle and the ‘all-clear’ I still wasn’t convinced, but to be honest there was no way I wanted to go and see the doctor. The thought of my tackle being man-handled was too much to bear.

So it was back to symptom hunting in the problem pages and hourly checks by hand and mirror. Inevitably the doctor’s surgery became my last hope-hotel. I explained about my aches and that Ithought it might be stress but ‘could you examine me anyway, just to be sure?’ The rubber gloves went on and the boxers came down.'So what do ya reckon then? Are they coconuts or what?' The doctor didn’t appreciate my wordy vernacular on the testicular, but he did give me a once over and the all clear. 'No’, he informed me as the gloves hit the surgical bin ‘they are not coconuts and yes, it is psychosomatic'.‘Psychosomatic?’ I asked.‘In your mind!’ He replied (rather testily I thought).‘Well as long as it’s not in my lunch-box’. I left surprisingly cured of all ills and not a prescription in sight.