The Death of Me

I’m what you call a paranoid hypochondriac.  Not only is there definitely something wrong with me, it’s the worst possible thing it could be.  Pain in my elbow?  Nope, not from my lousy posture putting all my weight on it when I’m sitting at my desk, it’s a heart attack that’s somehow lasting three days.  Cough?  Gotta be lung cancer.  Headache?  Brain tumor.  Stomach ache?  Alien parasite.  You get the idea.

And this of course leads to the inevitable doctor-related paradox:  “This could be something really horrible, I should go to the doctor!”  “If I go to the doctor, I might find out it’s something horrible!”  And so on back and forth until I burp and realize it was just gas.

It didn’t help that when I did drag myself to the doctor last year, it resulted in several rounds of  blood work, ultrasounds and MRIs that revealed that I have a slacker of a kidney who’s not doing a whole lot to help out the system.  I had no symptoms!  There’s now the possibility of terrible things happening inside me with no way for me to know about them!

I know this is all completely irrational.  My wife loves giving me no end of grief about it, and I deserve it.  If I’m so worried there’s something wrong, I should just go to the doctor and deal with it.  Sitting around working myself up into a frenzy over it isn’t —

I have to go.  I just sneezed and I’m pretty sure it’s the plague.


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