Every once in a while, a good thing happens to us hypochondriacs. We find out we have a disease we didn’t know even existed. Recently, I had an appointment with my dermatologist (who shall remain nameless because I don’t want her schedule to become filled with people like me for their semiannual sun damage screening). It is never fun, but this time, I had a wart on my hand, so at least it wasn’t something I personally had caused by lying in the sun with baby oil.
After the doctor finished her ‘look see,’ I asked if she could remove the wart. She stared at it a little too long, which made me think, “Oh no! Even she is grossed out by it.” She asked to see my other hand, started rubbing both of them, and then announced that I didn’t have a wart; I had iamanut contracture. WHAT?! She asked if I was of Irish or Scottish descent. Of course I wanted to say, “Duh! You wouldn’t be seeing me every six months if I wasn’t.” But I just answered in the affirmative. She explained that it’s genetic, and that’s when I stopped listening. I did hear her say it was nothing to be concerned about and then something about a tennis ball. (Now, the disease really is not called iamanut, but I am not telling you what it actually is for two reasons: One, you may feel the need to share some horror story about the disease, or two, you will want me to participate in some weird clinical trial that involves eating only nonprocessed food.)
I came home immediately and turned to the most trusted source I could to determine my fate: Google. I decided not to read any of the information because knowledge is not power and a picture is worth 1,000 words. Of course, the pictures are of people who never sought treatment and are 104 years old. Let’s just say, I am doomed. This may be the last column I ever will be able to type because my hands quickly will stop working.
I contacted my primary care physician, Dr. Jennifer Delaney, who knows I am a wee bit crazy, to tell her about my new diagnosis, certain she would rush to my side. She asked a couple of thought-provoking questions like, “Do your hands hurt?” Well, no, they didn’t. “Have you been researching things again on the Internet?” I assured her I had not read anything but instead, just looked at pictures. Then, with what I am sure was a strong desire to contact my Internet provider to cut off my service, she explained what iamanut contracture was and told me if I started having problems, she would refer me to a hand surgeon. She seemed unconcerned, just like my dermatologist.
The next day, I was lunching with two dear friends, and I announced my new diagnosis, knowing they would provide me with some sympathy. Of course, one of them had the same thing and proceeded to rattle off all of the people in her family who also had it. Apparently, iamanut contracture is pretty common. I needed to bring the big guns out, so at a recent family function, I told my nephew (you know, the trauma surgeon) about my affliction. And before I could place my hands into his to be cured, my sister-in-law pipes up, “Oh, I have that too. My brother had surgery for it, and he’s fine.” Seriously? Can’t this hypochondriac just have a moment in the spotlight?
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.