W HEN I WAS growing up, I was taught that when people asked how I was doing, I should say “fine,” even if I wasn’t. “They’re just asking to be polite,” my parents said. “They don’t need the details.”
My Aunt Doris never got that memo. When people asked how she was doing, she told them everything, describing at length her trials, which were endlessly fascinating to me. At the age of 6, I was convinced that I, like Aunt Doris, suffered from menopause. I had all the symptoms—a general weariness, and I sweated a lot. Other than that, I was in excellent health, which was good, since my parents couldn’t be persuaded to take me to the doctor unless I had a bone sticking out of my skin. Even…
