WebMD, Web of Woes: The Dark Art of Self-Diagnosis

In this episode of Deep Dives in the Shallow End, we take you on a wild ride through the ever-expanding world of self-diagnosis. From hypochondria’s finest moments to the endless rabbit holes of WebMD and TikTok health trends, we explore how the internet has turned us all into amateur doctors—and how that sometimes leads to more anxiety than answers.

But don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom. We’ll also discuss how access to health information can empower patients and how to balance informed self-advocacy with knowing when to trust the pros. Get ready for a journey through the tangled mess that is self-diagnosis—with a few laughs along the way.

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Transcript

Recording from the waiting room of WebMD's virtual clinic, where his mild headache has just been diagnosed as everything from altitude sickness to the bubonic plague—it's your host, Donovan.

Hey folks, welcome back to Deep Dives in the Shallow End—where we wade through the humid wetlands of modern life and somehow always end up with intellectual athlete's foot. I'm your not-so-expert host Donovan, and today we're diving into the world of self-diagnosis, where everyone with a smartphone is suddenly House M.D., minus the Vicodin addiction and winning personality. 

You know, there was a time when feeling under the weather meant a trip to the doctor, but now? Now we're all amateur physicians, conducting midnight symptom searches that inevitably lead us to conclude that our slight cough is either a common cold or an obscure tropical disease last seen in 1847 that somehow survived in an all-but-forgotten Prussian medical text. It's like playing medical Russian roulette, except every chamber is loaded with panic and WebMD is holding the gun.

But before we dive deeper into this hypochondriac's paradise, let me be clear: this isn't just another rant about Dr. Google's questionable bedside manner. We're going to look at both sides of this diagnostic coin—from the empowering aspects of medical knowledge at our fingertips to the darker corners where self-diagnosis turns into self-destruction faster than you can say "acute idiopathic terror."

So grab your digital thermometer, your favorite weighted blanket, and that Costco chub pack of crystal infused healing suppositories that we’ve all been having a little too much fun with; because we’re about to dissect the phenomenon that's turned us all into amateur diagnosticians, for better or worse—mostly worse, but at least we're learning some Latin along the way.

You know, there was a time when medical diagnosis was simpler—not better, mind you, just simpler. Got a fever? Must be an imbalance in your humors. Feeling sluggish? Time to let out some of that excess black bile. Medieval doctors were basically just spicy barbers with a penchant for bloodletting and a firm belief that mercury could cure whatever ails you. It didn’t, but at least you got to wear that cool leather outfit with the weird goggles and beak. Now I have to save that kinky getup for the Folsom Street Flogging Fest – what a waste!

Fast forward through the centuries, and the doctor-patient relationship was almost sacred, like a confessional booth but with more tongue touching. Your family physician was part medical professional, part trusted confidant, and part local celebrity—think Marcus Welby, M.D., but without the prime-time slot and with significantly more house calls. 

But then something happened. The internet arrived, bursting onto the scene like a hypochondriac's wet dream. Suddenly, every symptom, every sneeze, every slightly concerning mole became a gateway to an infinite medical library. It's like Pandora's box got a medical degree, except instead of releasing all the world's evils, it released all the world's possible diagnoses—and anxiety about those diagnoses, and anxiety about the anxiety. It's turtles all the way down, folks.

The transformation was subtle at first. WebMD launched in 1996, appearing as innocent as a digital Florence Nightingale sans the women’s empowerment or RBF. But like that first seemingly harmless cigarette Joe Camel offered you behind the middle school gym, it was just the beginning. Soon we had medical apps, symptom checkers, and online communities where people could compare mysterious rashes with the enthusiasm of wine moms sharing Instant Pot recipes.

By the early 2000s, we'd entered what historians might one day call the "Great Hypochondriac Awakening." Every home with an internet connection became a potential diagnostic center, every Google search a consultation, every forum a second opinion. It's like we all became members of a giant, virtual House of God, except without the benefit of actual medical training or Samuel Shem's wit to guide us through the madness.

And here we are today, in an age where your smart watch knows your heart rate better than you do, and your phone can tell you're depressed before your therapist does. We've gone from "take two aspirin and call me in the morning" to "check your symptoms against this AI-powered database and join our Discord server for support." Progress? Maybe. But like my mom’s decision to spend her spring break at hedonism last year, it's complicated.

Let's be fair—because unlike my ex's lawyer during our custody battle over our diabetic chihuahua, we should try to see both sides. Self-diagnosis isn't all WebMD rabbit holes and late-night panic attacks about that weird clicking sound your knee makes. Sometimes, it's actually helpful. 

Think about it: we're living in an age where medical knowledge isn't locked away in some ivory tower like a princess in a medieval castle, guarded by dudes with MDs and God complexes. Information has been democratized faster than you can say "suspicious mole that kind of looks like Eleanor Roosevelt." And while Eleanor Roosevelt appearing on your stomach like a little Kuato might be concerning for various reasons, at least now you can research it before spending four hours in an emergency room watching "The Price is Right" reruns, with the fun peripheral visuals of kids eat off the floor, and a middle-aged lady pick at her scabies (only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to things I encountered in a particularly traumatizing eight hour wait at an urgent care in Albuquerque).

Take Sarah from Minnesota, for instance—a real person hastily made up for this example. After months of being told her fatigue was "just stress" or "probably depression," her late-night Google searches led her to ask her doctor about thyroid testing. Turns out, she had Hashimoto's disease. Score one for the internet sleuths! It's like when Sherlock Holmes solved a case, except instead of a magnifying glass, a deerstalker cap, and an 8-ball of cocaine, she had an iPhone and insomnia.

And let's talk about those underserved communities, where getting to a doctor is about as easy as getting a straight answer from reading tea leaves. In rural areas, where the nearest specialist might be so far outside the hollar that you have to pass through Hatfield territory, having access to medical information can be a literal lifesaver. It's like having a medical library in your pocket, minus the intimidating yet sexy octogenarian librarian who judges your pronunciation of "myocardial infarction."

The empowerment factor is real, folks. Patients are walking into doctors' offices armed with research, asking informed questions, and advocating for themselves like never before. It's a far cry from the days when doctors were treated like infallible gods who descended from Mount Olympus with a prescription pad and an invoice that would make Zeus himself clutch his big old pearls.

For marginalized communities who've historically been dismissed or underserved by the medical establishment—women, people of color, the LGBTQ+ community—this knowledge is power. It's like finally getting the answer key to a test you've been failing not because you didn't study, but because the teacher was marking correct answers wrong. Like me with my students, not because of their gender, race, or orientation; rather, sometimes that know-it-all Dakota has to be taken down a peg or two – it’s the only power I have left in my life and I shall wield it with reckless abandon. 

In any case, when doctors historically dismissed endometriosis as "just bad cramps" or labeled legitimate pain as "hysteria,” being able to point to peer-reviewed research is like having a medical bouncer on your side, ready to proverbially rough up the supercilious sad sack sporting a starched, sterile smock, silver stethoscope and self-satisfied smirk if he should spew so much as a syllable of sanctimonious skepticism.

Plus, there's something to be said for the community aspect. Online support groups have become the digital equivalent of those hospital waiting room conversations, except you can participate in your pajamas and nobody judges you for stress-eating an entire package of Oreos and some filthy child isn’t coughing on you while their parent excuses their behavior as “precociously capricious.” Yeah, I have a golden retriever like that, but I wouldn’t let her lick your face – besides, that’s kind of our thing. 

But these communities have become modern-day Greek choruses, offering support, sharing experiences, and occasionally breaking into synchronized lamentations about healthcare costs.

But let’s flip this medical coin over and examine the darker side—the side that's turned more people into amateur physicians than a Grey's Anatomy marathon during a pandemic. And let me tell you, it's about as pretty as my attempt at self-administered manzillians during lockdown.

Picture this: it's 3 AM, you've got a slight headache, and somehow your innocent Google search has convinced you that you're patient zero for a disease last seen during the Crimean War. Suddenly you're doom-scrolling through medical journals like they're TikTok videos, and your WebMD history looks like the fever dreams of a hypochondriac Edgar Allan Poe. It’s like the "The Tell-Tale Hangnail.” It might go something like: True! Nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The WebMD had haunted me day and night! But observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story…” and then it goes on for another thousand words about going insane over something that isn’t really there. Heh, Poe – what a character.

Let's talk about cyberchondria—WebMD’s unacknowledged lovechild and the reason your therapist has doubled down on their own therapy. Studies show that about 40% of Americans have experienced increased anxiety after searching their symptoms online. It's like we've all become medical versions of Don Quixote, tilting at windmills that we're convinced are rare bat-borne diseases that haven’t even been found in humans…yet! Except instead of a faithful Sancho Panza, we have anxiety as our constant companion, whispering "but what if it IS Marburg virus?"

And the misdiagnosis rabbit hole? It's deeper than my fear for the future after watching an episode of Dora the Explorer with my nephew – when I was his age, I was watching Mel Brook’s films and Silence of the Lambs and I can still order McDonald’s in Tijuana just fine, but I digress. 

A 2021 study in the Journal of Medical Internet Research found that symptom checkers are accurate only about 36% of the time. Those aren't great odds, folks—you'd have better luck rolling some chicken bones and putting your faith in osteomancy.

The mental health impact is about as subtle as a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta about the Spanish Inquisition. People are walking around with more medical anxiety than a first-year med student during finals week. We've created a perfect storm of paranoia, where every headache is a potential tumor and every stomach gurgle is definitely that tape worm you read about in National Geographic while waiting at the dentist's office. Well, he can go anytime he wants, I don’t care if he was supposed to be my plus 1 to the Christmas party! …I’m so alone.

And let's not forget the strain this puts on our healthcare system. Emergency rooms are filling up faster than a public pool’s urine concentration on the first day of summer, with people convinced their seasonal allergies are actually some exotic ailment they found on page 47 of their Google search. Doctors are spending more time debunking TikTok medical trends than actually treating patients. It's like having to explain to your grandmother that no, the Facebook post she shared about curing a toddler’s teething pain with laudanum and radithor isn't actually medical advice; that’s more like a page torn from a dirtbag’s how-to Friday night when the Xanny prescription is all out.

The worst part? This DIY diagnosis trend has created a perfect breeding ground for snake oil salesmen that would make the original traveling medicine shows blush. You know what? Scratch that sexist anachronism -- salespeople – women can be charlatans too They're out there pushing "miracle cures" and "ancient secrets" with the enthusiasm of a pyramid scheme hun pushing essential oils at a baby shower. At least the 19th-century snake oil folk had the decency to skip town after swindling you—these modern charlatans slide into your DMs and never leave.

Let me tell you about Dr. Sarah Chen—an undoubtedly real doctor whose interview with someone else I will coopt and zhuzh up for this podcast -- has seen more self-diagnosed cases than Shakespeare saw opportunities for dramatic irony, or plagiarism – that’s right, come at me, Shakespeare nerds! Anyway, Dr. Chen sits in her office, I imagine, surrounded by diplomas that took longer to earn than most marriages last, dealing with patients who've convinced themselves they have diseases that make field amputations look like paper cuts.

"The internet," she tells an actual interviewer while adjusting her stethoscope with the weariness of someone who's explained why essential oils won't cure thyroid disease for the thousandth time, "is like giving someone access to a Boeing 747 manual and expecting them to fly the plane. Sure, all the information is there, but context? Experience? The ability to tell when that weird noise is normal versus 'everybody brace for impact'? That takes years of training."

Medical professionals are caught in a Catch-22 that would make Joseph Heller proud. On one hand, they want informed, engaged patients who take an active role in their healthcare. On the other hand, they're spending half their appointments explaining why that random Reddit thread about treating depression with kombucha and water scrying might not be peer-reviewed medical advice. And then inevitably wonders if it goes against the Hippocratic oath to keep her mouth shut next time and let Darwinism take its course. Although I am sure Dr. Chen would never be so callous; rather, this way of thinking, and even more due to my woefully low MCAT scores, is why I am not a doctor.

Dr. Chen probably shares a story about a patient who came in absolutely convinced they had a rare genetic condition they'd read about online. After a battery of tests and specialists' consultations, it turned out to be a mild case of dehydration. "It's like they're playing medical Clue," she sighs, "but instead of Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, it's always the rarest possible diagnosis in the brain with the worst possible prognosis."

The medical community's frustration isn't just about defending their territory like medieval lords protecting their fiefdoms. It's about watching people suffer unnecessarily, either from anxiety over imagined illnesses or from delaying proper treatment while they pursue their own diagnostic adventures. It's like watching someone try to fix their car's transmission after watching a 5-minute YouTube video—sure, it might work out, but do you really want to find out you're wrong while going 120 on the Autobahn?

But here's where it gets interesting: many doctors are actually adapting to this new reality, albeit with the grace of a cat learning to swim. They're developing what they call "collaborative diagnosis"—a fancy term for "okay, you've done your research, now let me help you understand what's actually relevant." It's like having someone who can convert panic-induced sentence fragments into actual medical insight.

"The key," Dr. Chen likely explained, while showing me a drawer full of printouts patients have brought in, "is to acknowledge that patients often know their bodies best, while helping them understand that medical knowledge is more than just matching symptoms to a database. It's like being a detective where every case is both completely unique and somehow exactly like something you've seen before." And as an editorial aside – do we always know our bodies best? My body has a constant craving for Cheez-its and Diet Dr Pepper that I am always feeding, and my gout doesn’t seem to be alleviating. So either I have the world’s weirdest case of pica that’s on the verge of clearing up, or I have no idea what my body needs.

But let's talk about the elephant in the waiting room—a healthcare system that sometimes feels like it was designed by Franz Kafka during a particularly pessimistic phase. When getting an appointment with a specialist takes longer than waiting for a Titan Arum to blossom, is it any wonder people turn to Dr. Google for a quick consult? And that’s right, folks – botany jokes – too far you ask? I say not far enough! We’re dousing that bridge in kerosene and lightin’ that bitch ablaze! Buckle up! 

In the United States, where medical bills are more terrifying than the idea of financing another comic book reboot film, self-diagnosis isn't just about curiosity—it's often economic survival. When a simple ER visit costs more than a used car, people start playing amateur doctor with the determination of MacGyver trying to defuse a bomb with a paperclip and his trusty old dental dam. Except instead of defusing bombs, or googling if cold sores are the same thing as herpes, they're trying to figure out if that chest pain is anxiety or something that requires selling a kidney to pay for treatment.

The average wait time to see a specialist in major cities is now longer than the Rolling Stone’s 10th farewell tour. In a rural area, you’re probably going to have to make do with a banana leaf poultice and a possum-grease rubdown – when you start smelling like roadkill, you know the fever’s breaking. One study showed that in certain specialties, patients wait an average of 24 days to see a doctor. That’s enough time to worry about that lump in your armpit to drive you into the depths of madness, or actually metastasize. 

And let's talk about those seven-minute appointments that feel like speed dating with my mom – cold, sterile, and end with a look of disappointment on her face that would make Oedipus weep. Doctors are trapped in a system that values quantity over quality, which is oddly the exact type of lady I’m looking for. These doctors are rushing through patients like my colonic specialist when she’s running behind and has to crank up the water pressure. But doctors are like "Here's your prescription, next patient please!" It's about as personal as airline safety instructions, and probably just as memorable.

The insurance labyrinth deserves its own mention—a bureaucratic maze that could castrate the Minotaur and charge him an arm and leg for the privilege. Try explaining to someone why their insurance covers acupuncture but not the specific blood test they need, and you'll understand why people are turning to YouTube medical channels faster than you can say "pre-existing condition."

Then there's the communication gap. Medical jargon flows through doctor's offices like Latin in a Catholic mass—impressive, traditional, and completely incomprehensible to most people present. When your doctor tells you you have "idiopathic peripheral neuropathy," they might as well be reciting Beowulf in the original Old English. We need to give translation jobs to med school dropouts to interpret for us. We just look over at them with a puzzled look and they can say “some of your nerves are all jacked up and we don’t know why, here’s your bill.”

The pharmaceutical industry isn't helping either, with their commercials showing people frolicking in meadows while a speed-reader lists side effects that include everything from dry mouth to adult-onset Ebola. They've turned us all into amateur pharmacologists, asking our doctors for drugs by name like we're ordering off a menu at a very concerning, yet very fun restaurant.

So here we are, caught between WebMD and a hard place, trying to figure out how to be informed patients without turning into medical conspiracy theorists who think Big Pharma is hiding the cure for the common cold in Al Capone’s Vault – but then again, any reason to see Geraldo humiliated live on air is alright in my book. 

But there's got to be a sweet spot, right? Like finding the perfect temperature for your shower, except instead of avoiding third-degree burns, you're avoiding both medical negligence and hypochondria.

Let's start with what I like to call the "Golden Rule of Medical Panic Googling": Research your symptoms the same way you'd research a potential date—thoroughly, but not to the point where you're looking for geographical details in Instagram posts to narrow down where they work, ya weirdos. It's about gathering information, not building a conspiracy wall with red string and newspaper clippings like Charlie trying to find Pepe Silvia.

Here's a radical idea: what if we treated medical knowledge like we treat cooking? Sure, you can learn a lot from YouTube and food blogs, but that doesn't make you Auguste Escoffier…or Gordon Ramsay for my less gentile audience. You can make a decent pasta dish at home, but you probably shouldn't attempt to recreate molecular gastronomy without some proper training – and please, that’s so early 2000s anyway – you don’t want to be seen as a Pierre Gagnaire – Oh, Donovan, you’re so drôle. Similarly, understanding the basics of your health is great—trying to self-diagnose a complex autoimmune condition? Maybe leave that to the professionals who didn't just follow up their advice with a cringe-inducing dance.

The key is becoming what doctors call an "informed patient," which is different from being that person who starts every sentence with "Well, according to this obscure medical journal I found..." It's about learning enough to ask good questions, recognize potential pitfalls, and know when to seek professional help. Think of it as being the producer of your health journey, not the director, star, and special effects team all at once. Everyone’s a multi-hyphenate these days!

Some practical tips? Keep a symptom diary that's more detailed than your middle school journal but less obsessive than my social media stalking – Lookin’ at you Stacy W from high school. Learn the difference between reliable medical sources and that one blog written by someone whose only qualification is owning a lot of healing crystals and a Feng Shui mirror. And perhaps most importantly, develop a relationship with a primary care physician who doesn't roll their eyes when you mention you've done some research (or at least has the professional courtesy to wait until you leave the room).

Remember that one friend who got really into CrossFit and suddenly selling courses on everything from nutrition to supplements that they are also coincidentally hawking? Don't be the medical version of that person. Instead, aim to be like a good journalist—someone who knows enough to ask intelligent questions but also knows when to defer to experts for the complex stuff.

Well folks, we've traveled down the medical information superhighway together, dodging WebMD panic attacks and questionable TikTok health trends like a game of Frogger in a hospital gown. And what have we learned? Besides the fact that typing your symptoms into Google at midnight is the modern equivalent of reading Camus by candlelight—guaranteed to end in yet another existential crisis.

The truth about self-diagnosis in the digital age is about as complicated as explaining the Roku remote to my dear father. We're standing at a fascinating crossroads where ancient healing wisdom meets artificial intelligence, where centuries-old medical knowledge collides with an app that thinks everything is either allergies or impending doom.

Looking ahead, the future of healthcare isn't going to be either/or—it's going to be both/and. Both medical expertise and patient empowerment. Both professional diagnosis and informed self-advocacy. Both traditional medical wisdom and the democratization of health information. It's like a medical version of fusion cuisine, except instead of combining Scottish and Mexican food, we're combining professional healthcare with informed patient participation. (And hopefully with better results than that time I tried to make haggis tacos.)

The key takeaway here? Knowledge is power, but like any sadistic nurse with a little too much control over the pain meds will tell you, with great power comes great responsibility. And occasionally, great anxiety about that weird rash that's probably just from your new laundry detergent…but what if it's not?

And finally, a word to both patients and healthcare providers: let's treat medical knowledge like we treat democracy—a technocratic oligarchy. Kidding – kind of; rather, something that works best when everyone participates responsibly, rather than either having an authoritarian regime or complete anarchy. Because at the end of the day, health isn't just about surviving—it's about thriving, understanding, and occasionally admitting that we don’t know what we’re talking about about.

As we wrap up this journey through the wild west of self-diagnosis, remember: your body is like a complex novel—you might be the main character, but sometimes you need an expert editor to help make sense of the plot. So until next time, take care of yourselves, and others. Stay informed, stay curious, but maybe don't diagnose yourself with scurvy just because you skipped your morning orange juice. Hope to see you next time.