Editor's letter: December 2015

I have had a few tropical diseases over the years. An aggressive case of giardia in the Turks and Caicos that had me shaking so uncontrollably even I could see it was silly-funny while in the middle of it being really quite alarming. A peculiar case of something unknown in Java where the hospital gave me 15 types of antibiotics to take five times a day, which left me imprisoned in my hut doing nothing but concentrating on swallowing pills (they were all different, but all massive, like having to eat the various plastic boats from the game Battleship). And then some tummy bug in Thailand I made worse by eating a large quantity of Easter eggs my boyfriend had brought me from England. There I was, supposed to be looking meltingly attractive, brown as a berry, lithe as an otter, as we bicycled 10km to the beach in Phuket. Except half a kilometre in and I'm flat out on the side of the road, clutching my stomach, with some thrown-out old noodles and a rotting rambutan next to my face, and he has wheeled off to luxuriate in a vast pool of Coppertone without me. I tend not to bike any more. And I still find Cadbury Caramel eggs a bit of a challenge. (A challenge, yes, but not impossible.)

The fact remains I'm a terrible hypochondriac. I think I am ill at practically every turn. 'If I die in an accident in this car,' I once told my friend Tom, 'can you promise me you'll get a proper post-mortem done anyway, as I'm sure I'm also actually dying of something else as well.'

Not a single illness can be mentioned in front of me that I don't think I have. In the last month alone I have had - in my mind's eye - type 2 diabetes, a tumour in my stomach, early onset dementia and something called vestibular brain disease. This is how the conversation will go: someone else will say, 'And that's when they found out I had type 2 diabetes.' And then I'll say, 'Oh gosh, oh terrible, oh awful.' (With absolutely no thought for the other person at all, but with immediate concern for myself.) I will then pause… pause… pause, and bite my tongue for as long as I can before asking innocently, 'And what would the symptoms be for that?' And then they'll say, 'Fatigue, dizziness, heavy legs, drinking excessive amounts of water, confusion, exhaustion.' And in my head I'm going, 'TICK! TICK! TICK! TICK BLOODY TICK! I'VE GOT TYPE 2 DIABETES!'

My doctor is very kind. He takes some blood samples as I loll around forlornly on his burnt-butter-coloured leather sofa. Over the years he has amassed a lot of my blood. As I think about it now, pints of the stuff. A few days later, my results are back. It turns out I don't have type 2 diabetes. I am sceptical, of course. I'm concerned they've got my blood sample mixed up with someone else's. 'Are you absolutely sure?' I ask my doctor, doing a little pretend chortle of frivolity. 'It's just those symptoms were such a match. Just such a… fit. It just seemed so… obvious.'

This is the new issue of Condé Nast Traveller. For those who are gallantly soldiering on even though they are blatantly suffering from some terrible malaise that is yet to be discovered by medical science.

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