One of the least enviable things I've ever witnessed in my life was a pair of co-workers who bonded over their medical problems.
It was a really strange thing to notice, and at first, it just seemed like small talk or polite conversation. But then it kept going, and while there was nothing particularly repugnant about the details, the undertones that developed were unsavory.
It was like they relished being sad about their invalidity, like it was one big sick day that gave them an excuse to stay home from school. As if to say, "thank god my body is failing me again, and everyone is powerless to make demands of me."
They would bond over the similar things their doctors would put them through, about the noises of MRI machines, about side effects and being incapacitated by medicines, about being laid up for extended periods of time. Bad news was greeted with a sort of malign enthusiasm, like getting to take the ride again. "Oh yeah, my doctor just told me my tests are bad again."
You had to wonder if they were harming themselves to get back on the radar. These two individuals weren't stupid, and it seemed within the realm of believability that they'd try to maximize all the physical therapy and weird attention that a medical problem would garner them.
Their problems were distinct and different, but with the way they locked in on each other, sharing tips and tricks as it were, it seemed like maybe without any other reason to talk to one another, the way they enjoyed such discussions bordered on perverse.
The tone of each, finding excitement in the other's words, lent an uncanny color to the details I learned by being a fly on the wall. Like hot pink syringes and neon green day glow catheter crazy straws.
On second thought, maybe the bigger problem was the open office floor plan, and the fact that I was forced to listen to conversations that I just didn't want to hear.
It was a really strange thing to notice, and at first, it just seemed like small talk or polite conversation. But then it kept going, and while there was nothing particularly repugnant about the details, the undertones that developed were unsavory.
It was like they relished being sad about their invalidity, like it was one big sick day that gave them an excuse to stay home from school. As if to say, "thank god my body is failing me again, and everyone is powerless to make demands of me."
They would bond over the similar things their doctors would put them through, about the noises of MRI machines, about side effects and being incapacitated by medicines, about being laid up for extended periods of time. Bad news was greeted with a sort of malign enthusiasm, like getting to take the ride again. "Oh yeah, my doctor just told me my tests are bad again."
You had to wonder if they were harming themselves to get back on the radar. These two individuals weren't stupid, and it seemed within the realm of believability that they'd try to maximize all the physical therapy and weird attention that a medical problem would garner them.
Their problems were distinct and different, but with the way they locked in on each other, sharing tips and tricks as it were, it seemed like maybe without any other reason to talk to one another, the way they enjoyed such discussions bordered on perverse.
The tone of each, finding excitement in the other's words, lent an uncanny color to the details I learned by being a fly on the wall. Like hot pink syringes and neon green day glow catheter crazy straws.
On second thought, maybe the bigger problem was the open office floor plan, and the fact that I was forced to listen to conversations that I just didn't want to hear.