By the time Thursday morning rolls around, I am a complete wreck.
In the past two nights I think I’ve had about three hours of decent sleep. The rest of my time in bed has been spent tossing and turning. Snoregasbord tells me that I’ve been less restful in my bed than a vampire with a clove of garlic shoved up his arse.
I’ve also come to the clear and precise conclusion that I have a disease called Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia.
Yep. That’s what I’ve got.
That’s the only conclusion I can possibly draw, having narrowed it down from every available option during the solid ten hours of research I’ve done in the past two days.
Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia is not a type of cancer, you’ll be delighted to know. Nor is it fatal, which is even better.
No, Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia is a disease that only three people have ever experienced. All of them are still alive, and suffering in constant agony somewhere clean and clinical, and out of sight of the public.
And it’s definitely what I’ve got too. I am the fourth person.
All of my symptoms fit the early stages of what I’m going to refer to now as STD, which is a lot easier to say, even if it does sound like I’ve come down with a dose of the clap.
In stage two of STD, you develop vast and uncomfortable rashes across 90 per cent of your body. I can already feel a slight itch under one armpit, so it’s started already for me.
Stage three involves abscesses forming across your body that erupt with a noxious-smelling pus after two or three weeks, so there’s that to look forward to.
And then in stage four of STD, your nerve endings start to fire constantly and randomly, causing wracking pain to shoot through your body on a daily basis, which can only be kept at bay by the hardest of hard painkilling drugs.
The three people who suffer from STD have all tried to commit suicide at one point or another. It truly is a delightful disease to have, and I’m very much looking forward to the doctor attempting to break the bad news to me in a way that doesn’t make it seem like my life is going to be a constant and unremitting hell – until I eventually feel the sweet embrace of death.
Mind you, if there’s anyone in this world who can break that kind of bad news in a way that doesn’t make you want to jump out of the nearest plate-glass window, it’s Dr Hu.
Yes. That’s his real name. Let’s try to all move past it as quickly as possible, shall we?
Dr Hu has been my GP for the past three years, since he moved to my local practice – and the country – from his native Hong Kong.
He’s a lovely man. Softly spoken and unshakeably calm, he sounds like the wisest of wise old Chinese gurus – even though he’s forty-three and hasn’t even started to go grey yet.
Unfortunate coincidental name aside (which I’m not going to highlight again, so stop thinking there’s any gags about phone boxes or screwdrivers homing into view over the horizon), Dr Hu is everything you’d want in a physician.
If I’m going to be told that I have STD, then this is the man I want to hear it from.
And just look how calm he is! Even after giving me a thorough examination and taking copious notes about all of my symptoms.
The poor man must be dying inside at the prospect of having to break the bad news to me, but he’s managing to keep it all internalised, bless him, so as not to disturb me too much.
What a lovely man.
Dr Hu sits tapping his pen on the desk for a few minutes, looking over those notes with a thoughtful look on his face.
Eventually, he speaks.
‘Well, Andrew. Those are quite the collection of nasty things you’ve managed to pick up, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘And you were right to come and visit me today. The sudden need for the toilet and the issues with your jaw could be a cause for concern.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘But I’d say that they are all part of the same overall problem.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
Here it comes.
‘I think I can confidently tell you what you’ve got.’
‘OK, Doctor.’
‘In my professional opinion . . .’
Oh God, he’s leaning forward and smiling. It must be terrible, terrible news.
I’ll have to draw up a will before I start spurting pus everywhere.
How do you draw up a will, anyway? Is there an app for it?
My heart sinks into my stomach as Dr Hu looks at me closely, trying his hardest to not come across as the angel of death he surely is.
‘Andy?’
‘Yes, Dr Hu?’
‘There’s nothing physically wrong with you.’
. . .
. . . . . .
What did he just say?
‘What did you just say?’
‘I said, there’s not really anything physically wrong with you. Not beyond the IBS anyway, which we know you’ve had for years.’
I go slack-jawed.
That’s impossible!
That’s ridiculous!
‘But, the pooing . . .’ I reply in a small voice.
‘Yes, I know,’ Dr Hu says, nodding his head sagely.
‘And the locked jaw . . .’ I add, one hand going to the side of my face. The jaw unlocked itself after the disaster at Fluidity, but it’s been painful ever since.
‘I know, Andy, I know,’ Dr Hu replies, still smiling slightly and keeping that warm, comforting expression on his face.
Damn him and his warm, comforting face!
Damn him and his sage words!
I’ve always thought Dr Hu was a brilliant physician, but he’s clearly just a crackpot with no idea of what he’s doing!
How can there be nothing medically wrong with me? There was all of the poo! And all of the pain! And all of the gottle of geering!
I have Sibley-Torrington dismorphenia, damn it! I can feel the abscesses starting to rise on my chest even as we speak!
Dr Hu holds out a hand, as if to ward off the temper tantrum I’m about to fall into. ‘Now, I’m not saying there’s nothing wrong with you, Andy, please don’t misunderstand me.’
My eyes narrow in confusion. ‘You’re not?’
‘No. It’s plain that you have multiple symptoms.’
‘Then what are you trying to say?’
‘That the issue is not with your body, but with your head . . . and more specifically, how your head is being affected by your lifestyle.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’ I ask, my tone extremely suspicious.
Dr Hu leans back in his chair. ‘You’re certainly not the first person to come into my office with these symptoms – although none of the others had quite as many as you, it has to be said.’
That’s the STD ruled out then. Maybe that itch under my arm is just where I’ve changed deodorant.
‘In my professional opinion, Andy,’ Dr Hu continues, ‘you’re suffering from a very twenty-first-century condition.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Too much technology, Andy! Too much time spent on that phone of yours.’
He points down to where my iPhone is clutched in one sweaty hand.
How did that get there? I don’t remember picking it up – or opening the App Store. But there it is, on the screen, waiting for me to search for that will-writing app.
‘All of your symptoms can be traced to the fact you spend so much time on the Internet,’ Dr Hu tells me, not without some sympathy in his voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that phone in your hand. And you talked about googling your symptoms before coming to see me, which tells me you look to the web for answers probably a bit too much.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. I’d say so. How long do you think you spend online a day?’
‘What? In total?’
‘Yes, Andy. How long?’ He smiles calmly. ‘And do try to be honest. How many hours of the day?’
I sit there for a moment, tryi
ng hard to think about how much time I do actually spend with my technology. I feel an uncomfortable flush of embarrassment start to colour my cheeks, as I realise that it’s probably a better idea to ask how many hours I don’t spend online.
‘Quite a lot,’ I manage to squeak out.
Dr Hu nods. ‘Thought so. And that’s the problem. All of that time spent playing with technology is not good for you, mentally or physically. Your neck and shoulders hurt because you’re looking down at your phone or tablet too much. Your inability to sleep comes from too much time with that bright, white light going into your eyes. And flitting from one app to another just creates more and more stress in your brain, which translates into the rest of your body.’
Good grief.
He can’t be right, can he?
That can’t be the root cause of why I’m feeling so terrible.
I must have some kind of disease. There’s just no way I could have been brought this low, just because I like my tech? Just because I spend a lot of time on the Internet?
That’s improved my life . . . not made it worse.
Without it, everything would be so much more of a hassle. Getting work would be harder. Shopping would be harder. Finding a date would be harder.
Everything would be harder!
Being tech-savvy and an experienced web user has made my life better. In every respect.
And yet . . .
My neck and shoulders do hurt more when I’ve been on the iPad for a long time.
And I do find it harder to get to sleep if I’ve been on my phone before I turn out the light.
But none of that explains the emergency pooing! Or the bloody lockjaw!
I say as much to Dr Hu.
‘Well, that’s not necessarily true, Andy,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘That stress I talked about? It can cause some huge physiological changes in the human body, especially when it’s allowed to build up. Doing your presentation was a stressful thing anyway, so add that on top of the naturally high levels of stress you experience because of your tech-heavy lifestyle, and it’s no wonder your body had such a violent reaction. The same goes for the lockjaw. I bet if you thought about it, you’d realise just how much you clench your jaw when you’re online –playing video games, or using things like Twitter . . . which is a very stressful, negative place, in my experience.’
Bloody hell.
Bloody, bloody hell. He might be right.
I do end up clenching my jaw a lot when I’m playing games like Call of Duty. Usually when some little bastard has just killed me from the same hiding place eight times in a row. And I do end up getting into arguments on Twitter quite a lot. About politics. Sometimes sports. Occasionally TV shows. Every now and again the weather.
Oh hell, I’m always arguing on Twitter.
The default emotional state for engagement on Twitter is ‘livid about something – anything – doesn’t really matter what’.
Then there’s Facebook. That’s not exactly a place of calm and happy reflection, either. If anything it allows you to argue even more with people, as there isn’t a 280-character limit.
But Facebook is where I conduct so much of my social life! It’s where I arrange to meet up with people. Where I speak to the people I’m close to emotionally but far away from physically. How else am I supposed to find out what’s been happening with Mum’s hip? She and Dad moved to the Highlands four years ago, and it’s not the work of a moment to get up there.
Facebook has been a godsend for communicating with them. As has FaceTime. It’s much nicer than just making a phone call. You can’t beat a bit of face-to-face interaction, after all.
But then, I think about how upset it makes me that I can’t be there with Mum when she’s suffering with the pain her hip gives her. That tends to stress me out quite a lot.
‘Aah . . . you’ve got that look about you, Andy,’ Dr Hu says.
I shake my head to bring myself back to the present. ‘What look?’
‘The look of someone realising something rather profound. I tend to see it quite a lot when people present with your symptoms.’
‘So you really get loads of people in to see you with the same complaints?’
‘Oh my, yes. That’s why I was able to diagnose you so quickly. I’ve been a GP for thirteen years, and in the past five or so I’ve seen this type of thing get worse and worse. It’s reaching almost epidemic proportions.’
‘Crikey.’
Dr Hu nods. ‘Crikey, indeed.’
‘So, what exactly do I do about it?’
I have a feeling I probably know the answer he’s about to give, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to involve a new and exciting phone app.
‘You need a digital detox, Andy. A period of time away from all of those screens . . . and without being online.’
Jesus.
Can you see how sweaty my palms have instantly gone?
You wouldn’t want to vigorously shake hands with me at the moment. There’s every chance your hand would slide cleanly out of mine, and you’d whack yourself in the crotch.
‘A digital detox?’
‘Exactly. By doing one, you should notice an improvement in your symptoms. If you don’t, then we’ll obviously have to get you back in here to run some tests, but I’m confident that you’ll see things get better.’
‘No more lockjaw?’
‘Highly likely.’
‘No needing an emergency shit in public?’
‘Quite probably.’
‘No more contrary bowels?’
‘There’s every chance.’
Well, all of that does sound quite appealing, I have to say.
What doesn’t sound appealing at all is what I’ll have to do to get rid of all those problems.
How on earth can I possibly cope without my technology?
‘I’m not sure I can do it,’ I tell Dr Hu, with a bare-faced honesty I’m quite proud of.
I wouldn’t say I’m cursed with a massive ego, but it’s never nice to admit when you don’t think you’re capable of something. The fact that I can shows just how scared I am, and in need of counsel.
‘I think you can, Andy. It’ll be a lot easier than you think. Here, take this.’
Dr Hu opens a drawer in his desk and produces a pamphlet, which he holds out for me to take.
My face contorts. I have a natural aversion to pamphlets, ever since I contracted the worst flu bug I’ve ever had from a pamphlet handed to me by an unsavoury character outside Tesco.
The pamphlet was for 20 per cent off tacos and fajitas at the Mexican restaurant around the corner, and I’d always wanted to try more Mexican food, so I took the damn thing, thinking it might come in useful.
Now, every time I so much as contemplate the idea of a burrito, I think back on that unsavoury character and the three weeks I spent dying in bed, and elect to eat a cheese sandwich instead.
Of course, Dr Hu is not unsavoury in the slightest, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have an aversion to taking the pamphlet. It’ll take up valuable room in my pocket.
‘Er, can you email it to me?’ I ask him, staring down at the pamphlet with barely disguised loathing.
Who has stuff on paper in this day and age, anyway?
Dr Hu gives me a look that would surely scare off any Daleks who happen to be in the vicinity.
(OK, sorry. I know I promised, but it’s just too easy a gag to make.)
‘Take it, Andy. Read it thoroughly. It will do you no end of good, I’m sure of it,’ he tells me.
I swallow hard. ‘OK,’ I reply, reluctantly taking the pamphlet from his hand and depositing it straight into my jeans pocket – where it instantly takes up valuable space.
‘Why don’t we agree to see each other again in about a month?’ Dr Hu says. ‘That should give you enough time to see if the detox is helping.’
‘Yeah, OK. That sounds good.’
‘Excellent.’
Dr Hu rises from his seat and holds out a han
d, indicating that he’s happy to conclude the appointment. I also rise. I’m not quite so happy, as my GP has just dropped a bombshell into the middle of my life, but I affect a pleasant smile anyway, and take his hand.
He wishes me well and shows me to the door.
After arranging a follow-up appointment with the receptionist, I make my way out of the building and into the bright light of day. Once there, I start the twenty-minute walk back to my flat in a very thoughtful state of mind.
I don’t doubt that Dr Hu has a point, but can I really do what he’s asked? Can I really do this digital-detox thing?
I yank the pamphlet out of my pocket and actually have a go at reading it as I amble along the pavement. As I do, my face falls and my walking pace slows to a near halt.
Oh, good grief. This is so much more awful that I even thought it could be.
I know I could stand to spend less time looking at Twitter and playing Fortnite, but this horrible little leaflet is basically suggesting that I give up my entire life.
‘Digital Detoxing and You’ might as well be called ‘Say Goodbye to Everything That Makes Life Have Any Meaning Whatsoever, You Sad Little Twat’.
OK, that wouldn’t have fitted on the narrow front cover, but it would have been a damn sight more accurate.
If I truly do have to follow all of the advice given here, I think I’m going to go crazy.
The digital detox didn’t sound like an easy proposition when Dr Hu suggested it, but now I can see the cold hard facts laid out for me – on bloody paper – it’s a million times worse.
‘Are you all right, young man?’
I gaze down to see a small, elderly woman looking up at me with some concern.
‘Yes, fine thanks.’
‘Ah. Only you’re staring into the clouds and weeping slightly. I thought there might be something wrong?’
‘Oh, there is,’ I tell her, unconsciously crumpling the hideous pamphlet as I do so.
The woman produces a smartphone from one pocket of her voluminous beige coat. ‘Do you need me to call anyone for you?’
I suppress a groan. Even pensioners have smartphones these days.
I am seriously contemplating being less technologically capable than a little old lady.
As if on cue, a stabbing, sharp pain shoots through my temple again – reminding me what this is all about.
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