An incurable condition

I used to be a hypochondriac. Until I discovered that I, in fact, suffer from something far more current, and far more insidious. It’s called cyber-chondria. And, as far as I can tell, there is no cure. Which I know, because I’ve looked. 

I was diagnosed recently, self-diagnosed, obviously, and I am still coming to terms with not only the condition itself, but the impact it is likely to have on my daily life. 

As with all medical conditions, I ask that you respect my privacy, and that of my family, as we navigate this challenging time, armed with Wi-Fi and a search history that would impress most professionals. 

Cyber-chondria is defined (by ChatGPT) as: “The modern condition of consulting the internet for reassurance and leaving with a far more serious diagnosis than you started with ‒ a disorder in which mild symptoms meet unlimited information, and the result is not clarity, but conviction.” 

That last word is important. Conviction. Because cyber-chondria provides morbid certainty in the face of mild concern. 

What starts innocently ‒ a headache, a slight pain, a moment of fatigue that could easily be explained by an 18-hour day, or the fact that I begin my day before the birds do ‒ evolves quickly into what is confirmed online to be a deadly and inoperable combination of Bubonic plague and cirrhosis of the liver. Which is why I knew I should never have had the tot of Baileys on Wednesday last week. The only way forward – according to my research – is palliative care at a step-up facility in Lyndhurst. 

Sufferers of cyber-chondria are not fools. The patient is acutely aware that the condition needs to be confirmed by someone with a medical practitioner’s registration number and who has met their minimum requirement of CPD points six months into the year. 

Which is why I find myself, for the third time this month, sitting with my doctor. A man I respect enormously. “I think,” I say with the measured calm of someone who has made peace with a difficult prognosis, “it might be serious this time.” 

“How long,” he asks, “have you had this headache?” 

Since Tuesday, I say. “But I’ve had it before. Which, according to my research, is itself a red flag.” 

He examines me with the quiet efficiency of a man who charges by the consultation and not by the drama. He takes my blood pressure. He looks in my ears. He does the thing with the little light. 

“You’re fine,” he says. 

“That’s what they said about Joburg,” I reply. 

The thing about cyber-chondria that its sufferers understand, and that medical professionals continue to underestimate, is that it is not irrational. It is, in fact, hyper-rational. Symptoms are not imaginary. We are simply contextualising them. Within the broadest possible diagnostic framework. At midnight. Without supervision. 

The internet, it turns out, was not designed to make anxious people feel better. Every symptom you enter returns results arranged in ascending order of severity, culminating inevitably in something that was last seen in medieval Europe. The algorithm is designed for engagement and not reassurance. And nothing is more engaging than the possibility that your Tuesday headache is, in fact, historically significant. 

I have, in the past six months, self-diagnosed conditions across four specialities, two of which required me to look up what the speciality was. I have watched explainer videos narrated by Americans in lab coats who may or may not have medical degrees but who speak with tremendous authority. 

My wife has been supportive, in the way that people are supportive when they are also slightly over it. “You were fine yesterday,” she said recently, with the tone of someone stating a fact rather than offering comfort. 

“Yesterday,” I reminded her. “But I hadn’t done the research yet.” 

There is sadly no cure. But there is management. ChatGPT has suggested I consider speaking to a mental health professional. My wife has suggested I put the phone down and watch something on Netflix that isn’t a medical documentary. 

I am considering all options. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be fine. Probably. I just need to check one more thing.