Regular readers of this newsletter will remember my less-than-fruitful visit to a doctor dubious practitioner of medicine, a few weeks ago. In case you missed that harrowing account, you can read it here.
I cannot claim any misdiagnosis being made during that consult - there was, after all, no diagnosis to begin with. A neat trick, I have to admit. If you steer clear of telling your patients what ails them, they can hardly accuse you of being wrong.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, my undiagnosed condition progressively deteriorated and now any physical activity, other than weeping, has me yowling in pain. It has gotten so bad that I cannot even take pleasure in the thrilling act of bouncing around inside an auto rickshaw as it navigates gigantic potholes which have been meticulously placed on Mumbai streets by the Municipal Corporation, to inject a feeling of adventure into the drab lives of the urban citizenry. Quite tragic, I'm sure you'd agree.
If you’re wondering why I am prattling on about my misery, it is because I have no humorous anecdote, no gripping tale to present to you this week. I have spent most of the day visiting clinics and lying motionless inside MRI machines. I had imagined spending twenty minutes cocooned in the belly of a giant magnet would serve to inspire me, but I was mistaken. The air-conditioning was nippy, the quilt they lay on me was warm, and the rhythmic whirring of the machine was not unlike a lullaby. I fell asleep within the first three minutes.
I hope (for both our sakes) to be able to deliver more value to you next week. For now, it is time for me to get back to ice packs and hot water bottles, to cans of Relispray and tubes of Volini, and to momentarily forsaking atheism to invoke divine mercy. Keep me in your prayers.
Get well soon 🌻