Divine Comedy at Its Best
By the Reluctant Collector of Maladies
Sabri Bebawi
I am an avid collector. No, not of stamps, coins, or rare wines—how gauche. I collect illnesses. And not your run-of-the-mill sniffles or sprained ankles either. No, sir, I am an exclusive connoisseur of exotic ailments, the Fabergé eggs of the human body’s failings. If the body is a temple, mine is a crumbling, UNESCO-protected heritage site with scaffolding on all sides and a constant stream of specialists wandering through, mumbling things like “fascinating” and “I’ve never seen this before.”
I began my collection in earnest with the classics. Cancer—the name alone evokes gravitas. Why stop at one? I started with bladder cancer (a real crowd-pleaser), moved on to prostate cancer (hello, awkward dinner conversations), and then, in a bold move, added leg cancer. Yes, leg cancer. You didn’t even know legs could get cancer, did you? Neither did I. But that’s what separates the amateurs from the masters.
Now, I may be a retired college professor by title, but in practice, I’m busier than I ever was wrangling undergraduates. I now spend my days shuttling between appointments with a dozen specialists, each assigned a different region of my increasingly complex map of dysfunction. I believe I have a doctor for every major body part, and a few minor ones too. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in the back office is currently writing a doctoral dissertation on the biomechanical tragedy that is my right elbow.
My calendar looks like the itinerary of a rock star on a farewell tour. Monday is bloodwork and cardiology. Tuesday, MRIs. Wednesday, oncology and the annual “Guess What’s Wrong Now?” symposium. The only difference is that rock stars get groupies. I get an insurance copay and a stern look from the radiology receptionist because I moved again during the MRI.
Yes, about that—I have Myoclonic Attacks. Sounds cool, right? Like some kind of mutant superpower. Except instead of saving the world, I involuntarily flinch mid-scan and have to redo the entire thing. I’ve become a repeat customer at the MRI suite, the medical equivalent of a VIP lounge where no one wants to be recognized.
People tell me I’m brave, and I suppose I am—brave like Indiana Jones navigating a temple of doom that is also on fire and has no parking. But I prefer to think of myself as a cosmic comedian, performing in a divinely orchestrated tragicomedy written by the universe’s most eccentric playwright. Somewhere, surely, the gods are watching my life unfold like a Netflix dramedy—equal parts House M.D., The Office, and a National Geographic special on rare diseases.
But do I wallow? Never. I strut. I limp-strut, really, but with flair. I show up to each appointment with a knowing smile, prepared to collect my next exotic stamp in the passport of maladies. After all, not everyone gets to be this interesting. And should I ever meet St. Peter at the pearly gates, I imagine he’ll take one look at my chart, whistle low, and say, “Wow. You really did the whole human experience, didn’t you?”