Confessions of a Hypochondriac

A Meditation on Modern Wellness, Mortality, and Meaning

One morning during my university years, I awoke with a numbness in my right arm and became convinced I had necrotising fasciitis¹, despite not having so much as a scratch on my skin. Death, I calculated, would claim me within the half hour. Panicked, I rushed to the university health centre where my GP listened to my breathless fears before calmly pronouncing, “Go home, Roséline, you just slept on it funny.”