There is a certain humourousness in the prospect.

Save for an occasional pain somewhere inside me, I am in the most robust health.
But this same little pain has been diagnosed by the Faculty as the symptom of an obscure disease.

An operation, they tell me, would kill me on the spot.

What it is called I cannot for the life of me remember.
They gave it a kind of lingering name, which I wrote down on my shirt-cuff.
The name or characteristics of the thing, however, do not matter a fig.
I have always hated people who talked about their insides, and I am not going to talk about mine, even to myself.

Clearly, if it is only going to last me six months, it is not worth talking about.