No, it’s not this, it’s that…Diagnosis hell.

Let the kind doctor tell you how sick you are… (Photo borrowed from

So you have a strange mark on your body.  Nothing disgusting, just something new.  A little dot which you discover while sitting on the toilet or during some other random activity.  And it itches.  You leave it for a few days, not bothered, even forgetting about it, then you discover it is slightly bigger and a little more red.  And it still itches.  You sit at work on a lazy afternoon, bored, surfing mindlessly through the world-wide web, and end up at a medical website.

You remember the red spot on your thigh and you type in the symptoms, which now also include a slight fever due to menopause and the sneeze you’ve had since spring started.  (Hay fever, people).  But you wait anxiously, tapping your finger on the table, expecting the reply from Doctor I-have-never-seen-you-or-know-your-medical-history-and-can-diagnose-any-illness-based-on-three-words.  He must be a friggin genius then?

But the result comes back and BAM! You’re trapped.

These websites operate like cavemen hunting mammoths. They dig a hole and chase the troop of animals down the path, or they just drive them of a cliff and wait for the fallen few.  Both examples of how they got suckered into their own demise.

I refuse to use these websites.  I understand that there is a place for them in researching treatment, once you have a specific condition, but to go and find out what’s wrong with you in the first place, well that is just borderline insane.  Something the Joker would do.  Like a blind date with the child of a known serial killer.  You might be safe, but chances are…

The main reason for me not using these sites is:  I will take a simple thing, like a wound that is taking a little bit long to heal and diagnose myself right through several degrees of severity.  From the harmless, actual, slow healing wound, right through gangrene, the Black Death and into the fatal HIV.

The confusing concept of this reality is that on the lifestyle scale for people running a risk of catching HIV, I would be a -54.  I am to scared to cheat on my wife, because she WILL break every single bone in my body (and I don’t like pain), and I am to shit scared of hallucinations to EVER try any drugs.  I mean, I am currently trying to place barriers on the places my mind visit and that is in a sober state.

So I prefer the contemporary method of diagnosis, which is to pay a small fortune for a GP, who will only end up giving me antibiotics, after I waited forever, reading magazines from 1967.  Where is the doctors of Grey’s Anatomy when you need them?  Even the ones in training….

The bottom line is that my diagnosis will deteriorate to the same degree as the two boys who was sharing their weekend with the wife.

Timmy: “Teacher, I had some weird spots on my arm over the weekend.”

Mrs Wife: “Wow, that’s strange, what were they?”

Timmy: “I think it was dandruff.”

Mrs Wife (trying to keep a straight face): “Oh really?  Are you sure?”

Johnny (jumping into the conversation) : “No man, it couldn’t have been dandruff.  I think it was definitely chicken pocks.”

Before the wife could even try and reply…

Timmy: “Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t chicken pocks.  Wait, now I remember, sorry teacher, I know what it was, mom told me.”

Mrs Wife: “That’s good.  So what was it then?”

Timmy: “Prawns.”


I won't bite, I promise...

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