MyDepressionList

I remember that I once went to the British Museum to read about ways
to treat some trivial ailment I had contracted—I believe it was
hay fever. I checked out the necessary book and read everything I
needed; then, lost in thought, I mechanically turned a few pages
and began studying all sorts of maladies. I forgot the name of the first
disease I came across—some terrible scourge, as far as I recall—
but before I had even halfway scanned the list of preliminary symptoms,
I became convinced that I had caught this disease.
I sat for some time, frozen in horror, then with the indifference
of despair, I began turning the pages again. I reached typhoid fever,
read the symptoms and discovered that I was suffering from typhoid—had been ill
for several months already, without knowing it. I wanted to know what else
I was suffering from. I read about St. Vitus' Dance and learned, as was to be expected,
that I suffered from this disease. Intrigued by my condition, I decided
to investigate it thoroughly and began reading in alphabetical order. I read
about ataxia and learned that I had recently contracted it and that the acute period would arrive
in a couple of weeks. Fortunately, I suffered from Bright's disease in a mild form
and, consequently, could still live for many years. I had diphtheria with
serious complications, and cholera, apparently, I had been suffering from since early childhood.
I conscientiously worked through all twenty-six letters of the alphabet and
became convinced that the only disease I did not have was inflammation
of the kneecap.
At first, I was a little upset—it seemed to me an undeserved slight.
Why didn't I have inflammation of the kneecap? How could such
injustice be explained? But soon less predatory feelings prevailed. I thought about
the fact that I had all other diseases known to medicine, became less
greedy and decided to do without the inflammation of the kneecap. Gout in its most
malignant form had stricken me without my knowledge, and a general predisposition
to infection, apparently, I had suffered from since my adolescent years. This was the last
disease in the medical guide, and I decided that everything else with me was fine.
I sat and reflected. I thought about what interest I represented from a
medical point of view, what an acquisition I would be for an audience.
Students would have no need to "visit the clinics." I alone represented
an entire clinic. It would be enough for them to walk around me and then receive
their diplomas.
Then I decided to find out how long I would live. I tried to
examine myself. I felt my pulse. At first, I couldn't find a pulse at all.
Then suddenly it began to beat. I took out my watch and started counting. I counted one
hundred forty-seven beats per minute. I tried to find my heart. I could not find
a heart in myself. It had stopped beating. Now, I suppose that it had all the time
remained in its place and was beating, but I cannot explain what happened. I
patted myself from the front, starting from what I call my waist up to my head and
covered a bit of the sides and part of the back, but heard and felt
nothing. I tried to show myself my tongue. I stuck it out as far
as possible and squinted one eye to look at it with the other. I saw only
the very tip of the tongue, and the only thing this gave me was even greater
certainty that I had scarlet fever.
A happy, healthy man I entered this reading room, but I left it
a broken invalid.