THE HYPOCHONDRIAC’S GUIDE TO LIFE AND DEATH.

by Gene Weingarten

To determine your bone structure, empty a twenty-four-ounce jar of Hellmann's mayonnaise and attempt to place your left hand inside. If it fits easily, you are small-boned. If it does not fit, you are large-boned. If it fits but you cannot remove your hand, you are medium-boned. To remove jar, strike crisply on the edge of a sturdy piece of furniture. If necessary, treat cuts and abrasions with a mild antiseptic to avoid clostridial myonecrosis, also known as "gas gangrene." This is a sudden, sullen, raging infection that attacks open wounds. It causes intense pain, fever, and swelling. The skin turns white and stinks. It oozes brown liquid. If it is untreated, stupor and delirium follow, rapidly progressing to coma.

 The coroner will note you were "medium-boned."

Ordinary, levelheaded women often exhibit subtle signs of hypochondria when they are pregnant, calling their obstetricians at all hours to report mundane bodily events. Such behavior is completely normal, particularly for a first pregnancy. This is because the woman senses that for the first time in her life she is responsible for a life other than her own. The sensitive obstetrician will try to deal with these complaints with patience, gently but firmly reassuring the caller that everything is fine.

Caller: Doctor, I seem to be belching an awful lot.

Doctor: That's perfectly natural.

Caller: Also, I have a sore that won't heal, blood in my stool, sudden weight loss, a mole whose appearance has changed significantly in the last week, and a painless lump under my armpit.

Doctor: That's perfectly natural.

Infarction-Isn't That a Funny Word?

Hahahahaha Thud.

 She was the kind of dame who gets your attention if you are the kind of guy who doesn't know the difference between ecru and puce, if you get my drift. She was brainy but not mouthy. She walked fast but fine, like a woman who knows how a woman is supposed to walk but doesn't give a damn. Not that she walked like a man. A goat can't impersonate a fish.

 She took my hands in hers. Her hands felt good. Mine felt clammy, like a clam. That's the thing about me. When I'm nervous, I can't think of good analogies. She took the tips of my fingers in hers and pressed on them, not enough to hurt but enough to let me know she could hurt me if she wanted to. She had hurt men, you could tell.

 We were alone in a small room with a bed. I took off my tie. I took off my shirt. She reached for me. We had sex.

 OK, we didn't have sex, because Dr. Karen Stark is a cardiologist and it would have been totally inappropriate for us to have sex in her office, plus I was wearing one of those paper gowns that expose your behind, and I am certain Dr. Stark would have been laughing too hard to properly enjoy the experience.