Mark
ALBRACHT
It’s a sick world
The fun of hypochondria is wildly contagious
If there’s (me bad thing about life,
it’s the fact that sooner or later we’re
all going to be dead. It’s a grim
ending to an otherwise gleeful
experience, generally speaking. After
wm&mmmz1 "w i a^» thCT® are those
ot us who view
death as a long
overdue coffee
break at the aid
of die arduous
work shift known
as “being.”
But as the
human race learns
more about the
various things that cause our respec
tive demises, a strange affliction has
evolved in society, one which (
continues to grow in prevalence. It’s
hypochondria.
I once went to the doctor because
of a massive white spot at the back of ■
my throat. It was partially on my
pallet and partially on my uvula. I
realize that you may say to your
selves, “But isn’t an uvula, like, a
woman thing?” I know I did. But it’s
not. It’s actually a slang term for
what is technically known as the
hangy-down-thing-in-the-back-of
your-mouth.
Naturally I thought I had lym
phoma. Who wouldn’t? But the
doctor informed me that I was wrong
and that the spot was merely a canker
sore.
This was the beginning of my own
hypochondria inclinations. The
«
There’s a guy I know who had, a whole
array of different diseases from which
he suffered now and then, sometimes
several at the same time, but always
adjoined so that he never experienced a
moment of health.”
doctor told me that these sores,
which I’ve had all my life, are
essentially tiny ulcers. They’re
larmless. Maybe they are, but if I’m
constantly getting these small ulcers
n my mouth, then what in God’s
lame does my stomach look like?
At least my hypochondria
problem isn’t very intense. I only
end to fret when sharp pains pierce
Tty side. All things considered,
naybe I should worry. Maybe those
pains are telling me something like,
‘go see a doctor.” Well anyway, other
people have worse problems than I
do.
There’s a guy I know who had a
whole array of different diseases
from which he suffered now and
then, sometimes several at the same
time, but always adjoined so that he
never experienced a moment of
health. His room was adorned with
flowers and incense, and every night
he went to sleep in what he morosely
referred to as his death bed. As irony
would have it, he was killed in an
accident while he was driving his...
well, I guess you’d call it a “death
Pinto.”
I believe the single biggest factor
contributing to the hypochondriac
mentality is the inevitability of death.
Disease and sleep eternal are like two
peas in a pod. They’re joined at the
hip. They go to bars together, drink
Mad Dog, and make goofy faces in
the mirror behind the bar until the
bar tender has had enough and calls
them a cab. They split the cab fare on
the ride to their mutual flat and give
each other a good-night kiss just
before they crawl into the same bed
and make spoons until morning.
I have a solution to this problem
that, if implemented, should clear up
this hypochondria problem within a
eouple of generations. Here it is:
Society in general should downplay
the severity of death.
Why tell children that yes,
grandma is gone forever, wafted off
to that immaculate seniors country
club in the sky, when we could
instead tell them that grandma is
getting a new apartment underground
in a coffin?
While it may still make us sad that
we will never see granny again, at
least in terms of our own mortality,
we’U have no clue that one day we’ll
all become nothing more than food
for grubs. That, after all, is the
bottom line: Death equals worm
meal. No matter how spiritual you
are, your body is still screwed.
Then, at long last, disease
symptoms will no longer be cause for
concern. They will become fun party
games in which participants guess
each other’s ailments. “Who gives a
shit about Pictionary? I’ve got herpes
simplex 2!” Imagine the impfica
»tions. Instead of barreling down the
interstate on long family vacations
playing license-plate bingo, passing
the time could be filled with sen
tences like:
“Fevery, kind of nauseous.”
“Rashes in weird places, I don’t
want to talk about it.”
And “Guess what? My appendix
just burst!”
Fun for the whole family.
Albracht is a junior philosophy
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist.
Jessica
EIZNNEDY
A mother’s goodness
Daughter’s understanding comes with age
She doesn’t say it as often
anymore.
That may be because my visits are
no longer lazy afternoons of laundry
and play. Instead, my stops are
winsome
whirlwinds of
whos, whats,
whens and an
occasional
why. Oit may
be because we
have grown
older. And with
that growth, my
needs and her
motives have changed. Time is
quickly carving a chasm between my
mother and I; not a chasm of
separation, but of deeper understand
ing. Our relationship is metamor
phosing into a friendship of two adult
women. We have bypassed the
traditional mother/daughter roles.
“Be Good. ”
Those two simple words follow
me everywhere.
My mother’s warning is almost
ritualistic in nature. I approach the
door, mother comes into the hallway.
I turn the knob and ease the door
open, she and I rattle on with last
minute thoughts. I step through the
threshold, she moves to hold the door
behind me. I say “good-bye.” She
says “be good.”
I would agree, it is a phrase of
seeming simplicity. The casual
observer might assume my mother’s
directive is uttered only to fulfil her
maternal responsibilities. But he who
would say that is deceived because
he is unable to see what those wards
are for us: a translucent code. The
obvious interpretation is simple, and
the observer is partly right. She does
want me to stay out of trouble and to
«
Time is quickly carving a chasm between
my mother and 1; not a chasm of separa
tion, but of deeper understanding.”
display my best behavior. The true
meaning is historic.
“Be Good."
I spent my formative years in a
state of singleness; one parent, only
child. My mother was my everything.
She played all roles fen* me: mother,
teacher, confidant, friend. With time
came a stepfather, a brother and a
sister; each loved fully by both of us.
Yet none of them could change the
bond my mother and I had forged
through the years.
Competition is a component of
our bond that my mother has tried to
ignore, play down and overlook. But
I had no one to compete with other
than her. My brother and sister are
almost a generation behind me, and
my friends’ aspirations were different
from mine. My mother’s were not.
So, at a very young age, I created a
goal of great magnitude, one that
would shape who I was to become: I
had to be good as, or better than, my
mother.
"Be Good"
Until just recently, I equated those
wards to mean excellence. I used
them to justify my desire to succeed.
I drove myself to do as well as my
mother did at my age. When she was
in high school, she waseverything I
wanted to be: talented, and as a
result, jxjpular.
In high school, I was good at what
I did. I was editor of the school
paper, competed in nationals for
speech and stretched myself between
a plethora of other activities. But I
was not my mother. I was over
whelmed and frustrated because my
obsession had lured me into spread
ing my self too thin. J
"Be Good ”
My mother is not a supermom.
She doesn’t wear pearls or heels, or
work in a high-rise 9-to-5. She
doesn’t have to rush home to her
family; to cook, to clean. She doesn’t
read self-help books before quickly
pecking my father on the cheek and
slipping softly to sleep.
No, mom can be better be
described as an aging hippie. She has
graying hair, which until recently
hung straight to her waist. She used
td cut it herself, composting the
fallen wisps in her organic garden.
She works out of the home, running a
hodgepodge business of editing,
writing and teaching. She is ex
tremely well-read, is even more well
spoken and has a passion for hrf
family, God and plants. For her
fellow humans, she feels great
compassion. The emptiness my
mother feels for those less fortunate
is not kept carefully behind emo
tional bars. Rather, the empathy is
put to work. She donates, she
volunteers and she recycles.
A year ago, I wanted to be the
first woman I described. The person
my mother is not. Becoming my
mother, in her true essence, was
unacceptable at that time.
Now, I don't think I would mind it
too much. In fact, I would be a little
honored.
That’s because today is different.
Today, my eyes are open wide and
ears are dry.
"Be Good."
Competition with my mother’s
past is unfiilfilling. I have realized
and accepted that our lives are on
different paths. Her choices are hers;
in a different time and undo* very
different circumstances. Few the most
part, they are not going to work for
me. My choices are finally mine, and
I am finally learning how to be me.
Translucent objects shimmer,
different angles and lights alter their
appearances. College was a new
angle and a new light for me.
The code needed modification, a
twist.
"Be Good ”
When my mother tells me to “be
good,” she still means for me to
behave. That will never change. And
she wants me to be good at what I
do. But, in Order to understand what
she meant, I had to know who I really
am and who my mother really is.
The twist is that “be good” means
to have compassion for those around
you, to share your material and
emotional wealth, to love humanity
and to love plants.
In essence, "Do Good ”
Kennedy is n senior broadcast
ing and advertising major and a
new Daily Nebraskan columnist