By Wendy Litner

While I have become indifferent to brand name labels when it comes to fashion and food (by indifferent I mean I can’t afford them), I am ashamed to admit that when it comes to my aches and pains, I really love a good label.  Preferably a multi-syllabic, hyphenated one.  When you are as proficient at worrying as I am, diagnosing yourself with a common cold is just simply inadequate.  I mean, I could phone in a worry about the sniffles.  I need something grimmer, something that can really keep me up at night. 

Thankfully, with the help of the internet, I can type in the most ordinary of symptoms and diagnose myself with horrifying maladies which have never previously targeted my age group, ethnicity or gender.  Despite these irrational inconsistencies and my lack of any medical training whatsoever, I become completely convinced that I am Patient Zero who will not only suffer science-fiction like symptoms but will also be responsible for infecting an entire population of poor, unsuspecting subway goers who are forced to incubate with me on my commute to work.  My family will have to issue an apology in the Metro to the entire Bloor subway line, paying extra of course for the number of characters in the spelling of my rare disease, thereby literally adding insult to injury. 

While I used to have sudden onset of symptoms, resulting in intense googling trysts as I diagnosed my ‘disorder de jour,’ my symptoms as of late have become even more pronounced and communicable.  For example, I abruptly awoke the other night at 3:00 a.m. to the distant sound of click-clacking that I couldn’t quite make out.  While my initial reaction was of course to diagnose myself with Misophonia, a disorder characterized by extreme aversion to selective sounds, my rational self realized that it was more likely that I was suffering from Rubella, or other diseases preceded by hearing loss.  As I made my way to the computer however to confirm my diagnosis and secure my enrolment in promising clinical studies, I found my usually calm and collected husband fussing and fidgeting over the keyboard. 

“I have tetanus,” he proclaimed, with a furrowed brow, pointing at the computer screen’s list of tetanus symptoms.  “I have a headache and it’s totally tetanus.” 

This was clearly ridiculous.  His headache was obviously a result of his deflated pillow which I had begged him to replace weeks ago.  I mean, really.  Who, in this day in age actually suffers from tetanus? 

But as I chastised my husband for his absurd alarmism, it became clear to me that I was in fact suffering from a horrible disorder.  After months of internet searching, my epidemiological research had finally come to a head: I was suffering from a most debilitating form of Googleitis. A disease described by the urban dictionary as “an obsession with self-googling or otherwise using the Google search engine to answer all of life’s questions.” 

Oh my goodness!  I was clearly suffering from Googleitis!  And a strain so infectious that my husband had caught it!  While perhaps I could withstand being a host for this virulent bug by myself, the thought of it afflicting my previously even keeled, and frustratingly normal husband, was simply too much to bear.  I had no idea my actions were so contagious.  I had to stop.  I couldn’t let this powerful virus worm its way into my family.  After all, if I am so sure I am on the precipice of a health disaster, shouldn’t I really be enjoying the time I have now?

There was only one thing to do. 

“Move!”  I begged my husband as I lunged at the computer, deftly pushing him out of his chair, “I need to google overcoming addiction.”