Be careful what you wish for

I grew to be a cranky boy, so my father told me, perhaps explaining why I don’t recall ever being in the swing of things in the 60s. But in the 70s— as amedical student doing an elective at a snow-shrouded New York hospital in a deep and dark December — I first became aware of a dull gnawing sensation consistent with what my textbooks termed left loin pain. I tossed and turned throughout those painful nights, worrying if I had picked up some esoteric endemic American disease. I even remember one wintry evening when I longed to buy a ticket to Tchaikovsky’sNutcracker ballet to distract myself, but just couldn’t afford it. My anxiety about the ache faded after returning to antipodean climes in the New Year, but I was left with the nagging doubt that maybe my distress had been caused as much by homesickness as by organic disease.