Houston, We Have a Problem.

Hyphochondriac. Hypochondriasis (or hypochondria, sometimes referred to as health phobia) refers to an excessive preoccupation or worry about having a serious illness. Often, hypochondria persists even after a physician has evaluated a person and reassured him/her that his/her concerns about symptoms do not have an underlying medical basis or, if there is a medical illness, the concerns are far in excess of what is appropriate for the level of disease. Many people suffering from this disorder focus on a particular symptom as the catalyst of their worrying, such as gastro-intestinal problems, palpitations, or muscle fatigue.

Just recently, my wife has been pre-occupied by the thought of having all sort of illnesses. From why she has been pelted by this assiduous pimples, (yes pimples!) irritating eczema near the eyes (which we learned through the radio that it may have been caused by regular contact of cellphones. Nickel metal hydride from cellphone batteries causes skin irritation. She has this habit of waking up early in the morning and surf the net in 3G phones while still bed in the hopes of wearing her down later and court another dozing. Damn that Sassy Lawyer!), leg cramps, difficulty of moving bowels, headaches, stomach aches, up to her vertigo, and problems with thyroid glands. She belongs to a family with history of bouts of hypertension, cervical cancer, diabetes, and brain tumor, so can you blame her to act as if she is also predisposed to such diseases? Of course not. She has vertigo, which is the lasting heritage of the family, to which she knows how to fight or at least mitigate its ill effects. These and all lead to her tendency to self-diagnose and later worry that she might have this or that. I tried to explain a few times, trying to find the opportune time, and carefully choosing the right words that would dwell in her in the hopes of avoiding to offend her, much less ridicule her. I don't want to punctuate a good start of conversation in an argument. I just wished I could cut the affinity for a while and talk as persons, devolved of any emotions, and just flood the floor with thoughts, ideas, suggestions, and possibly an understanding. In my 38 years of life struggle, tongue forked with scars of inadequacies and failures, I could sensely feel that there is a wall. A wall as high as the Trojans' and as fiercely guarded like that in Berlin once.

Where should I stand?

I don't know.

And I don't know if I'm going bland, unappealing. Words come out in the air and vanish like pricked bubbles. I would try to understand, rationalize, but the Pisces in me is being overpowered by the Scorpio's defense. Then silence.

I have read once that when you grow old, fewer and fewer words come out of your mouth. Until touch, look, glance, and stare speak more loudly than blabbing a mouthful. Imagine Lolo and Lola sitting by the porch, laced with interludes of occassional involuntary head movements and a lot of forty winks, and you would know what I mean. But then again, there is calmness.

Would I stop? Of course not. I'd like to believe I'm a warrior. I'm Lord William Wallace if not Captain Richard Winters. She is my wife and I will not lose over some imaginary enemy. I love her and that will be enough.