The last month or so, I’ve felt a bit like some of the characters Woody Allen has played in his films. You know the characters: the worried ones that are priming themselves for a shot at being ordained a Patron Saint of Hypochondriacs.

Yes, I can relate, except I’m no hypochondriac. As such, I’ve been on a pilgrimage to find out what’s wrong with me. I need a handle on the situation. I need clarity. I need to make some sense of the random and collective aches and pains I have … and also a few chronic conditions, to boot. Not to mention the other few medical concerns, I might be plagued with, that I read about on the Internet and that are awaiting some medical confirmation.

There are days when I feel better, and then there are days when I feel worse. My body seems to have a rhythm all it’s own and resists any attempt to improve the status quo. Really, I’m not kidding. I think there is some intrasomatic conspiracy going on somewhere in my central nervous system. Consider the following evidence:

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