Read Online Hyper-chondriac by Brian Frazer - Free Book Online

from twenty-two inches to twenty-seven. According to Arnold’s encyclopedia, one’s biceps, calves and neck were supposed to be the exact same size, so I became fixated with keeping the three in proportion. I think even Mr. Wilkington appreciated my attention to detail, perhaps more so when I wasn’t around.
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    My penchant for lifting got even more intense in college. While all the freshmen at Emerson were drinking, fucking, joining fraternities and experiencing the euphoria of being away from their parents for the first time, all I did was lift. I rarely went to parties, bars or anywhere that didn’t have a squat rack. I couldn’t help it. I was an iron junkie, addicted to barbells.
    I woke up at five-thirty every morning so I could lift for two hours before my eight o’clock classes. And I made sure I got to bed by ten so I could get my seven and a half hours’ sleep. If I didn’t, I felt that my subsequent workout was doomed. Although I could see improvements on a weekly basis, I was never satisfied. I had officially become a prisoner of my body, although my captivity was voluntary.
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    During Christmas break, I was back on Long Island doing one-armed chin-ups in the hallway outside my bedroom when I overheard my parents discussing someone named “Andrew.” At first I just assumed it was one of my father’s unruly first-graders. With my ear pressed up against their bedroom door, I continued to hear them speak in hushed tones. But why were they whispering? What was so important about this “Andrew” fellow? I knocked on the door. The whispering turned to silence. I was onto something!
    â€œWhat is it?” came a voice from the other side.
    â€œIt’s me.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCan I come in?”
    The answer wasn’t always yes. We had many a conversation through wood. My mother’s door was practically always locked, as was the hallway bathroom, which was also connected to her bedroom via a second door. Unfortunately, in addition to my mother’s other ills, she also had a bad stomach and would never be able to make it to the other bathroom downstairs in time should the upstairs one be occupied. Since the downstairs bathroom consisted of a sink and toilet but no bath or shower, we would have to check in advance with her to make sure “it was a good time.” So we often left for school without our maximum cleanliness potential—which bothered all of us except my father.
    This time, however, my dad turned the inside knob to let me in.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œWho’s Andrew?”
    â€œThat’s none of your concern,” droned my father.
    Secrets were nothing new for my family. No one gave up information unless pummeled by questions or badgered incessantly.
    â€œC’mon! Just tell me who he is. He must be important since you’re whispering about him.”
    â€œHe is important, Brian,” my mother finally relented. “He’s your brother.”
    â€œI have a brother named Andrew? Wow!”
    â€œHe’s dead.”
    Talk about a buzzkill.
    â€œYou never knew about Andrew because he died before you were born,” she relayed.
    â€œHow did he die? Why didn’t you tell me? What was he like?” I had hundreds of questions I wanted answered immediately.
    â€œHe was only seven months old when he died.”
    â€œOh my God! What happened?!”
    â€œSIDS.”
    â€œOh. SIDS!” I had absolutely no idea what SIDS was, but I figured I could look it up in the World Book later.
    â€œSudden infant death syndrome,” my mother explained. “He died in his sleep.”
    My parents had only one picture of him. It was a black-and-white Polaroid and he had dark hair and dark eyes and looked more like my mother and brother than my father, sisters and me. He wore a sad expression on his face, as if he knew he wouldn’t be around very long.
    I soon learned that when