There are diseases that science can’t cure. A tragic truth, yet accepted with the sober acknowledgment of the limits of human knowledge. But then, if you think about it, there's no cure for the rest of us either.
Think about it if you will. Life itself is an incurable, sexually transmitted, fatal disease. A condition we catch without consent, endure with a mix of bewilderment and bravado, and eventually succumb to. And while the prognosis is universally grim (100% mortality rate, mind you), it's astonishing how seriously we take the treatment.
From the moment of diagnosis—typically marked by a slap on the rear end and the startled cry of "Congratulations, it’s a human!"—we embark on a lifetime of increasingly bizarre therapies. Take, for instance, the way we treat the early symptoms: "Infancy" is often managed with frequent doses of lullabies and absurdly expensive strollers that claim to cure sleepless nights. Side effects include chronic exhaustion for the parents, and, for the patient, an unshakable addiction to being carried everywhere.
As the disease progresses into childhood, the symptoms morph. Patients develop an insatiable curiosity and an alarming tendency to ask questions like "Why is the sky blue?" and "Why can't I eat candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" The prescribed treatment? Endless school days, structured playtime, and the firm belief that answering "Just because mama/dada says so" is a valid medical response. This phase often includes an experimental diet of vegetables disguised as edible objects and frequent doses of homework.
The teenage years bring with them an acute outbreak of "Identity Crisis," a particularly aggressive strain of the disease. The afflicted frequently experience confusion, bouts of rebellion, and an inexplicable attraction to loud music and questionable fashion choices. The standard treatment is liberal applications of advice from adults who have long forgotten what it feels like to be 16, paired with a strong dose of peer pressure. Caution: Side effects may include eye-rolling, sulking, and the sudden conviction that no one understands you, especially those who have been through the same disease decades earlier.
But it's adulthood where the condition really ramps up. This is where things get particularly ludicrous. The patient enters the workforce—a carefully designed social experiment where we pretend that trading hours of our lives for paper rectangles called "money" will somehow alleviate the symptoms. To cope with the stress of this delusion, many turn to self-medication. Some prefer caffeine, others alcohol, and a select few swear by yoga and deep-breathing exercises. Yet, the disease stubbornly persists, manifesting in new ways: mortgage payments, car loans, and a mysterious ailment known as "responsibility."
And then, of course, there's the ultimate irony—the "Wellness Industry." Billions are spent annually on gym memberships, green smoothies, and mindfulness apps, all in the vain hope of delaying the inevitable. We guzzle down superfoods like kale and quinoa, convinced they’ll buy us a few extra years, while cheerfully ignoring that this disease has a strict "no survivors" policy. (Note: A particularly amusing subset of patients subscribes to the belief that cryogenics will eventually provide a cure. These individuals are often spotted debating whether to freeze just their heads or their entire bodies—because, you know, why not hedge your bets?)
But the real comedy of life’s disease lies in its treatment plans. Every so often, the patient encounters someone who claims to have found "the cure." Maybe it’s a book, a seminar, or a cult, but the pitch is always the same: "Follow my ten-step program, and you’ll finally beat this thing!" And so, with desperate hope and a credit card, they sign up, only to discover that the "cure" involves little more than rearranging their furniture, chanting affirmations, and pretending that their inevitable demise is somehow optional.
In the final stage, often referred to as "Old Age," the symptoms become too pronounced to ignore. The body, once resilient, starts to falter, and the patient is frequently found uttering phrases like "Back in my day…" and "Kids these days don’t know how good they have it." Medical professionals prescribe relaxation, reflection, and perhaps a hobby, while the patient reflects on a lifetime of treatments that, in the end, didn’t change the outcome.
As the disease reaches its final, unavoidable conclusion, the patient passes on—leaving behind a legacy of treatments, half-used gym memberships, and an impressively large collection of essential oils. The funeral is held, tears are shed, and life goes on for the rest of us who, despite knowing the terminal nature of our condition, continue to search for that elusive cure.
Because in the end, isn’t that the punchline? Despite knowing that life is fatal, we all keep treating it as if we might just find the remedy.
-- Pradeep K (Prady)
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