Post | 08/21/2008 1:00 am
The Tale of Hatie Agora Hypochondriasis-Berger

Do you feel each illness is serious?
Are you fearful of a dire diagnosis?
Do you feel you are the subject of ill-fated destiny?
Are you a hypochondriac?
The Tale of Hatie Agora Hypochondriasis-Berger
An Interactive Poem
For Hatie every pimple was
Rancid boil-ing
Every cough was serious
Incurable pneumonia
Every doctor’s visit was a
Minefield
Every breast lump
Was cancer.
A fact:
If Hatie Agora received a
Negative medical test
She believed the lab was in
Error—
No Question.
Anxiety and fear surrounded her especially assigned
Doom which
Followed Hatie all over her world
As Shadows.
She could not travel much as
A red light made her certain
A car would disobey
And smash her to smithereens
Crossing streets was downright
Fearful
She stayed on one side
Mostly.
For Hatie Agora
A flowerpot
Perched on a ledge
Was certain to seek her out
On an usually calm blue-sky day
A wind would blow
The pot would fall
And Hatie would be rendered
Paraplegic
For the rest of her life
No doubt about it.
From fear of disease
And bad luck
And birth name
Hatie Hypochondriasis-Berger
Felt
She was personally selected for tragedy.
She believed she possessed
A special quality
That set her apart from
The rank and file of
Chance.
She was naturally selected for
Flight
And incontrovertibly pursued by
Fright.
Hatie lived her life
Fleeing, suspicious, and anxious
Elevators were doomed to fall
Airplanes to explode by the
Most unlikely of passengers
Usually her seatmates.
How she hated air
Born.
Hatie Agora Hypochondriasis-Berger
Was named by her parents
Who witnessing her cowering in her
Basinet corner
Signatured her birth certificate to suit her
Infantile performance.
Afraid to even roll over
This infant never stretched to her full
26-inch length
When grown, Hatie
Never assumed her true
Height.
She lived her life
Crouching
From cradle to imminent
Grave imaginings.
Angst ridden to
Sleeping with pills
Waking to sunshine
Yet expecting
Thunder and lightning
Hatie remained struck in a
Path preventing her
Life.
One day it
Came upon her in a revelation.
A vociferous reader
Huddled safely in a corner of her
Single bed—
She read the story of Narcissus
Ahhh
A lesson plan.
Poor Narcissus
Addicted to his reflection
Would drown in the pool of his
Obsession
Chosen for self-love
By self-love
Poor flower was never to bloom but
Lost in water
Over his head.
Hatie hearing his dying cries
Prayed for her salvation from
Self.
This prayer made her
Existential
A goddess of anonymous challenges
From which she could fashion
A new life of probabilities
In a trance-like
Explosion
Falling free
Hatie Agora so fated by
Birth name
Would change her nom de plummet
To reflect who she
Was now — not.
Legally done she became
Alice. Any Alice
To wear a blue gown*
And it fit perfectly.
Hatie left the shroud of Hades
To another who chose to wear
Black. So be it.
As Alice
She accepted the accidental
Digit of her protoplasm
And Chance ruled.
She wore blue as a talisman of the
Magic that transformed her
To Everywoman.
Expecting no special treatment
Leaving the island of Ill-fate
Fleeing a political prisoner
She was
Granted asylum in the land of
Averages.
All bets were off.
Alice became a gambler
Tossing a die to land on
Just another one (1).
"Why me?" she said. "Why not me? Why not them?
Their plane, their elevator, their street crossing
Their flower pot
Or not."
Alice, a.k.a. Hatie
Now saw herself as just another
Magic piece of cosmic dusting
Programmed for now.
Crossing rivers
She held up her hand
Stopping huge ocean liners and
Crossing seas on foot.
And Alice of Alices. Manifold.
Explorer. Adventurer. Alice Anonymous. Became
Just another alicious being in a world of not me.
Anyones.
* The hit song "Alice Blue Gown" premiered in the 1919 Broadway musical "Irene."
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33 Reader Comments (so far…) Sign In or Register to comment
So clever and uber-creative and delicious to read.
Sheila
I love how you continue to revisit fear. A different twist this time, from fear to the safe place of mediocrity and “anyoneness”? The poem dances with movement and images, like your characters perform their rise and demise. A life unto themselves. Very individual but reminiscent of many of us.
Such a good assessment of Sheila’s creativity, Frannie. Don’t you just love her “nom de plummet”–––so funny–-so clever.
Phyllis
Definitely. Sheila calls her poems interactive. Rocky picked up on that and wrote one as well. I have been thinking about it too. I would love to see where you would take the subject.
Now saw herself as just another
Magic piece of cosmic dusting
Programmed for now. N’OICE.
Never been a hypocondriac. I am more the opposite, believing that many things go away on their own. I do check online for symptoms and verify what my doctor says. Acturally, most of my wierd problems have been side-effects from meds.
Ha, ha, ha. Nope can’t enjoy it at all. Personally I have seen too much examination of other’s fears and phobias without one looking at their own. It’s time to quit making remarks, judgements, etc. of other’s fears. My mom’s complaints were treated by the medical community as anxiety and other socially acceptable diagnoses at that time. I wish they would have listened to her. She was 57 when she died of massive metastic carcinoma and I miss her every day.
Dabney,
When I was working for all those years in the medical offices, we actually would occasionally get these patients. It would take the doctor a couple of visits to realize it, but it actually is a very terrible condition. So, I didn’t enjoy the poem either. Didn’t you occasionally see this? I know some plastic surgeons that have patients(or should I say have because they get rid of them) that are addicted to these surgeries.
I have seen patients actually beg for surgery, and get furious when the doctor would refuse to refer them to a surgeon because it was not necessary…or he would refer them, and the surgeons would refuse to do the surgeries.
This dis-order goes far beyond general hypochondria, doesn’t it? Not exactly the same thing?
Diana, my ex-sister-in-law (now dead) was a surgery junkie as you describe. She was getting heavy periods and tried to convince her doctor to give her a hysterectomy. He refused. She went shopping for a surgeon who did it for her. That was sad. This was many decades ago and I believe she didn’t know the effects of what she had done. So she went straight into menopause in her early 30s and didn’t understand why she felt the way she did. It actually ruined her marriage and changed her personality. She died in her late 40s from complications of another surgery.
She unwittingly did one good thing for me though, after seeing her experience. When I had six gynecologists (needed a few second opinions) tell me I needed a hysterectomy when they found uterine cancer, I refused every one. I was out the door before they could schedule another appointment. I did a ton of research and found the laser therapy that cut off the blood supply to my tumors and also to large fibroids which brought on years of heavy bleeding. I get regular biopsies, and my last internal sonogram told me the fibroids were back, but not the cancer, so I can live with that.
I am not, by any means, saying that my answer is someone else’s. It worked for me. I really did not like how eager all those doctors were to remove my organs. I would never comment on the seriousness of someone else’s condition. But the idea of having surgery when it is not necessary—I saw firsthand how destructive it was.
KB, I had my hysterectomy at the age of 41 and never looked back. The best thing I ever did, but then, I worked for a doctor and the two of them consulted with each other and corrabated their opinions.
But, we certainly did get the surgical junkies. I swear, they were only happy when they were in crises and someone was caring for them. We even had a patient or two that would arrive in wheelchair when they were perfectly capable of walking. Of course, if you don’t use your limbs for a couple of weeks, see what happens; you get pretty weak. These people would go years like that.
Diana, yes, your experience is why I stressed mine was a personal decision and not a condemnation of women who undergo serious and necessary hysterectomies, with full knowledge of what will happen afterward. I knew, when I was going through so many doctors, that either I would do nothing or something different. I would never impose my opinion of such a serious and life-threatening matter.
I brought up my sister-in-law’s surgery-seeking as my own cautionary life experience. It took me a long time to understand her and the sadness she brought on herself and family.
Yes, I understand what you saw during your work with the doctors. Hypochondria is a terrible condition and I always hated it when a doctor and/or nurse would make too fast a judgement because of their own predjudices. My mother was only anxious because she knew something was wrong and tests were not supporting her symptoms. The visits from the doctors and the “so sorry’s” did nothing to appease the anguish I felt at the time that my 57 year old mother was dying. My anger was visible and hard for others to watch as you can imagine. One tumor could have been excised. Instead it was allowed the time to spread to many areas of the liver.
Regarding the surgeries I think cosmetic surgeries can be for many reasons: to correct a malformation either congential or acquired or for purposes that a psychologically healthy person feels is appropriate for them. Unfortunately, not all people are psychologically healthy and have body dysmorphic syndrome and have repeated and multiple surgeries. I think that doctors should refuse to perform more procedures but money talks and gets results. An ethical physician would insist on a psych eval prior to performing such surgeries.
Well, Dabney, I think Michael Jackson had it. The only reason I think he was able to find surgeons to do what they did to him was the celebrity and the $$$.
This is different that someone that knows darned well something is amiss. Our Physicians Assistant, who was a runner and took excellent care of her body, knew something was badly wrong, took herself to her gyn., whereupon he discovered the beginning of a clear cell ca. in her ovaries. Surgery was 3 days later, and 12 years later, she is doing fine.
Reading Shiela’s poem above is like watching a film noir.