I read with interest this morning a special in the (London) Times about British hypochondria and admit was baffled at the piece’s premise, that the British bellyache too much about every ache and pain. And here I’ve been, admiring the nation’s stiff upper lips for all these years. To me, British forbearance can best be summed up by the infamous fight scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. After King Arthur lops both the Black Knight’s arms off, the Black Knight proclaims, “It’s but a flesh wound!”
On the other hand, I think of my maternal grandmother, born of hearty British stock. My father used to laugh at her because she kept a calendar in her kitchen and every day would write down what ailed her. On the 6th, it would be “no stools.” The next, a “strange tingle along left jaw.” She had years of these calendars stored in the dining room hutch. A routine visit to the dentist would result in “the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life,” upon which declaration my brother David and I would start asking her, “More painful than breaking your arm?” “How about being shot in the eye with an arrow?” or “It can’t be worse than having a baby!” until we we were either banned to another room or slapped.
My grandmother died this spring. After eating her breakfast, she lay back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and passed away. She was 100.
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