Deadheads

Sometimes I think (it’s rare, but I do - think, I mean) some diseases were invented just to make hypochondriacs of us all. I mean, thumb through a medical dictionary and tell me your heart doesn’t go a-flutter and your tummy collywobbly at the mere prospect of how many sicknesses you can contract just by being alive today. Just by breathing, or taking a walk, or petting (light or heavy) a dog, or wolfing down that paani puri or holding a stranger’s hand in the darkness of a movie theatre.

Technological advances in medicine have stretched our lifespans to the point where we can do wheelies on our state-of-the-art electronic chairs just before manoeuvring soundlessly into our graves. But why is there no record of the number of people whose lives are snipped short by the same science? What about these unfortunate critters who die stress-related deaths every day, stress wholly engendered by health anxiety, anxiety generated by Too Much Information? And what about them those who worry constantly about dying of worry and in the process, die? Self-fulfilling prophecies aren’t always fun and games, unless you’re a shrink and you get to diagnose them in everyone but yourself.

A modern kindergarten class might decide to teach a reinvented version of the alphabet: A is for Aneurysm, B is for Brain Tumour, C is for Colon Cancer...

Then there's SUDS, sudden unexpected death syndrome, which mysteriously strikes adolescents and adults in their sleep. How the hell do you plan for that?

I read about people all the time who've never smoked and have religiously, almost fanatically, devoted their lives to various ancient and new-age therapies; the yoga-and-wheatgrass warriors. Yet, in some sad, twisted dance of irony, Death visits them first but not before they've been ripped open by some horrific, excruciating disease with an unpronounceable name.

Tomorrow's headlines (guaranteed): More People Dead.

It almost seems as if you're one of the lucky ones if you're already a corpse. Throw some rabid, old-school superstition and paranoia and fear-mongering into the mix, and you know you have one hell of a life to look forward to. Still want to spit out as many kids as possible before you die?

Terminal Trepidation. Coming soon to a bedpan near you.