I HAD IT COMING

I had only myself to blame.

When I was a kid I was terrified of getting leprosy. My grandmother had given me a children’s Bible (I still have it) with these really alarming illustrations of lepers that scared the pants off me. I didn’t know exactly what leprosy was, but I sure didn’t want my fingers to start dropping off.

Now I have sarcoidosis, a medical condition that’s just as scary. Basically, the soft parts of my body—lungs, eyes, spinal cord, and other important stuff—develop hard, granular spots that impair the functioning of whatever organ they strike. It’s not really related to leprosy, but it’s always seemed to me like there’s a connection. As far as I know, though, I’m not actually in danger of any body parts falling off, so if you see me on the street, don’t be afraid to shake my hand.

The life of the mind.

What’s happening to me is more like what happened to Lot’s wife in the Bible. She was turned into a pillar of salt for looking back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and I’m crystallizing from the inside out, maybe because I once took a Vietnamese refugee to see “Midnight Cowboy.” I had no idea what the movie was about, I swear.

In a way I do deserve it—it’s karma, or fate, or one of those other things I don’t actually believe in. I just had way too much fun at the expense of serious diseases when I was younger. In college I tried to help my boyfriend get passing grades by wrapping a bandage around my head and claiming I had massive head trauma, and that it would be cruel to punish him for the distraction caused by his worry about my condition. I kept a bottle of ipecac handy for friends who needed an excuse to postpone a test. One guy actually vomited all over his professor’s office in what must have been a pretty convincing display of dire illness.

One Christmas break, I got a job as a temporary office worker. I figured receptionist duty would involve answering phones and doing the crossword puzzle, but at the interview they told me I’d have to take a typing test on my first day. I bought an Ace bandage and a sling, told themI’d sprained my wrist, and got the job anyway. Faking a sprained wrist for four weeks turned out to be almost as hard as actually learning to type, but as far as I was concerned, it was worth it. (All this was while I was studying to be a recreational therapist, by the way.)

After I moved into the post-college adult word, the faking became more elaborate. I took a job at a real estate firm, and I couldn’t stand it. I showed up one day with yellow eye shadow lightly brushed on my skin and complained of being sick. The next day, more yellow and more complaining. On day three I called in and said I might have hepatitis. That was the last communication I ever had with anyone in that office. I suppose I could have just quit, but that wasn’t my way.

Liver disease also helped ease another short-lived job—as a fishmonger at the South Street Seaport. I was stationed at a little cart selling seafood to strolling tourists, and of course every one of them wanted a half-dozen raw oysters. Shucking an oyster out of its shell is hard, and the little knife you use is really sharp, so I told anyone who asked for some, “Listen, confidentially, those oysters are stinky. I drove them in from New Jersey myself. We’re talking hepatitis on the half shell. Why don’t you try some boiled shrimp?” Of course, the customers had to peel the shrimp themselves. (My sister Kate was going to charm school at the time, and I had to pick her up after work and drive her back to New Jersey. I was lucky if I came home from work with all my digits, but for my little sister a run in her stocking was a bad day. Her attitude put it all in perspective: “Can you NOT come to my school reeking of fish?”)

When I was at MTV, my manager, Peg Donegan, gave me a doctor’s reference book for Christmas so I’d know how to fake my illnesses better. MTV never had such a sick employee. I “came down with” shingles, gout, and piles, and I wasn’t above renting crutches and claiming I’d stepped on a nail so I could go skiing in Aspen for the weekend. My roommate Lori and I practiced our fake limps by putting stones, nails, and even little pieces of glass in our shoes to see which would produce the most convincing but least painful gimp. I’d perfected the art of malingering. And then the bony finger of mortality tapped me on the shoulder. Don’t kid around with serious diseases; they have a poor sense of humor.

September is National Pain Month. If you live with chronic pain or know someone who does, check out or support the U.S. Pain Foundation. And please share your experience in the comments!