I’ve discovered in that as I have gotten older, I’ve become more and more of a hypochondriac. My husband thinks that this is one of the most infuriating / amusing things about me. I don’t know where it came from, but I can literally worry myself sick about catching every disease and illness out there.
In my warped head, I can literally send myself through a panic attack with racing thoughts, accelerated heart rate and, as my lovely niece Cait refers to them, the scary poops within seconds. Most of these moments of insanity come from me self-diagnosing an ailment or terminal disease that I have been struck with.
Here are a few examples:
Exhibit A: One evening, I made a lovely dinner of Trader Joe’s walnut raviolis in a homemade pesto sauce. The two of us sit down to have dinner. Suddenly, as I am chewing my ravioli, I realize that my heart is racing. I start thinking, “I am allergic to nuts.” I stop moving and talking. I am waiting for my body to go into shock, since I know that this allergy has suddenly developed and I have no one to rescue me from it. B looks over at me and says, “Okay honey. What is it this time?” I drop my eyes to the pile of raviolis in front of me and whisper, “What if I am allergic to nuts?” He actually had to compose himself and rearrange his facial expression so that he didn’t burst into hysterics. “Honey, you are not allergic to nuts.” I then went into a ten minute prose about how the body can develop new allergies every seven years, based on my last visit with my Primary Care Physician, Dr. Park. After about seven minutes, and before my dinner gets cold, I convince myself it is all okay and eat every last ravioli.
Exhibit B: I had a headache that lasted over three weeks. It was not excruciating, but it was there when I woke up and when I went to sleep. I couldn’t find relief with Aleve, Advil and not even the prescription Percocet that I was able to finagle from a friend. I finally went to see Dr. Park. After she examines me, she says, “I am going to order an MRI. It probably isn’t a tumor, but let’s just get the MRI to see.” Within minutes of her telling me the plan, I am sweating, wiping my hands on my jeans and trying to find the nearest exit. Thank my lucky stars, the MRI was perfect. But in the meantime, I spent the week before the test thinking the most ridiculous thoughts about how my life was soon coming to an end.
Exhibit C: My Swine Flu episode. I go to see Dr. Park and after examining me she says, “I am pretty sure that this is Swine Flu.” I immediately panic, dry heave into her trash bin and start writing out my will in my head. A trip to the ER, an IV of fluids and a few hours later, I am on my death bed. She comes to visit me and says, “Well, it’s not Swine Flu. It is an aggressive bacterial infection that we can treat with antibiotics.”
I’m starting to think that maybe Dr. Park is not a perfect fit for me. While I can fully admit that there have been times where I have completely overreacted and embellished physical symptom or two (or panicked about taking Benadryl when I had just had a dose of Dramamine six hours earlier) I am starting to come to the conclusion that we just aren’t meant to be together.
But really, how do I break-up with my doctor? I feel awful because I’ve been with her for six years. Not to mention, the office is less than two miles from my front door and there is an urgent care center on the first floor in case of any emergencies…
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