The first voicemail I listened to upon landing at Dulles was from my lady business doctor asking me to schedule an appointment. “You’ve got some abnormal cells,” she said. “We just need you to come in for a routine, painless test in the next two months.”
I interpreted this message as: We’re fairly certain you’re dying. You need to come into the office immediately so we can torture you with our evil doctor tools and give you a dire prognosis. We believe you are at risk of your uterus falling out.
When in doubt, always assume the very worst. I called my mother, a former nurse and the blessed woman who is always willing to talk me off my many many cliffs. “Hi, I’m back from Costa Rica. Yes, tons of fun. DID YOU KNOW I WAS DYING?!” She just sighed.
I’m not sure at what point in my life I became such a hypochondriac. I spent an entire twenty minutes with a co-worker yesterday discussing the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome and whether or not we believed she had it. And thought it was a perfectly normal conversation (Side Note: We’re waiting to see if her organs fail).
Why call a doctor when you have Web MD and irrational fears? Why believe your doctor with a medical degree and many years of experience when you have Yahoo Answers to guide you? A headache? You probably have a brain tumor. A bit tired lately? Mononucleosis!
With hypochondria also comes a touch of drama queen. Again, assume the worst! After I lost my water bottle, sunglasses and debit card in Costa Rica– then proceeded to fall unceremoniously off my bike, I was positive shit was escalating. And when things escalate in foreign countries near large bodies of salt water, what is the obvious next step? Shark attack! Bree had to spend several moments reminding me that Costa Rican sharks had no teeth and I could not in fact be gummed to death.
My Googling privileges having been revoked for the remainder of the day and I’ve been instructed to write on the chalkboard 100 times: I know I’m not dying, I know I’m not dying, I know I’m not dying…(at least not yet).