It Is Not a Tumor

I once had a small bump in my mouth and had convinced myself that 1.) I had never seen it before and 2.) It was cancerous. I agonized over it for weeks before finally making an appointment with my dentist. He examined my mouth, scraped, cleaned, x-rayed, but made no mention of my bump. Was he blind? Was he just gonna let me die a slow agonizing death? So I asked him, “What is with this bump?”

“Oh that, that is just a calcium buildup. If it continues to get bigger we can schedule oral surgery and grind it out of your mouth. But, it is nothing serious.”

I almost passed out. If you have to slice me open, and grind something out of me, it is serious. I don’t believe in “nothing serious.” I come from a long line of hypochondriacs—it is the pretend disease that is sweeping the nation—everything is serious.

I blame my hypochondria (among other things) on my parents. They were not fussy about medical care. We went to the doctor once every decade whether we needed it or not. My dad was an EMT and a Mensa candidate, in his mind that was the same thing as board-certified-licensed physician. My mother was not the nursing type; she was more like the receptionist in the billing department. Her contribution to our health care was forcing us to eat oatmeal once a week and putting a hand on our forehead to see if we had a fever.

To stay home from school in my formative years required a fever, vomiting and some type of internal bleeding. If you didn’t hit the trifecta you had to go to school, come home and do your chores, and homework, before you were allowed to collapse. Bleeding was not allowed unless it was an absolute necessity and you had to hold the hemorrhaging appendage over a drain. Now, sometimes, if my parents were in a good mood, a broken bone could sub for say, a ruptured spleen, but you had to have proof that it was broken, like a protruding bone or a leg that went at a 90 degree angle toward your stomach.

Now, I am not criticizing my parents, I am just saying, this type of upbringing breeds hypochondriacs. All that “toughen up” stuff and “stiff upper lip” business is only for people who think they will live a long, happy life. I was certain I would die by scorpion bite or rabid rodent by the time I was 14. A girl can dream can’t she?

Anyway, long-story-short, I lived . . . sort of. What I mean is, I tried to get on with life, (such as it was) although I was constantly in fear that every paper-cut would result in a flesh-eating bacteria or, at the very least, a staph infection that would require the removal of limbs. It is hard to be peppy when you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and by other shoe, I mean one that is infested with antibiotic resistant bacteria.

Part of the reason I married my husband is that, he too, came from a long line of hypochondriacs and he had an arsenal of home remedies that I had never heard of before. Our romance was a blur of tinctures, mustard plasters and poultices. Aaaaah, those were the days. Then several years into the marriage, it dawned on us that we both might make it into middle-age, we became hopeful like we had never been before. But then, the unthinkable happened, we had kids.

Worrying about your own health is nothing compared to the panic you feel for your own children. Parenting books on raising a healthy child were like a drug. It became my mission to raise my little babies free of disease and blood-borne illness as much as possible. But those little buggers were against me from the start. My oldest once found a raisin on the floor of aisle six at the grocery store and ate it before I could stop him. I almost had a heart attack right there in frozen foods.

I tried to safeguard the children from future potentially deadly situations but those dang kids made it into a game. “Look Mom, no hands.” “Mommy, look how high I am.” “Hey Mom, no teeth.”

That is when I began taking anti-anxiety medication and calling my doctor more regularly.

“Doctor, do you think this mole looks cancerous?”
“No, I think it looks like a piece of orange chicken from P.F. Chang’s.”

“Doctor, I am so tired. I just don’t have a lot of energy.”
“You need more exercise.”
“I have tried that, but when I start to exercise I get all out of breath and start to sweat. I think there is something wrong with me.”
“Well, at least we agree on something.”

“Doctor I am sorry to call so late but I had to call your office, the hospital and your receptionist first just to get this number, the other number you gave me was disconnected.”

Books became too slow for diagnosing symptoms and finding rare diseases. I had to turn to the internet, WebMd became my friend. They had photos of rashes, blisters, hairy moles and a thorough guide on diagnosing head injuries, irregular heart rhythms and irritable bowels. It was a godsend! (And just a side note: Doctors love it when you diagnose yourself, it makes their day go so much more smoothly.) However, the more I learned the more distant my husband became. When I diagnosed myself with E.D. that was the last straw--he snapped, and gave up his hyper vigilance. He had some excuse about “he didn’t have time to be paranoid, blah, blah, blah . . .” He was completely destroying the foundation of our relationship. Paranoia is what our love was built on.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it, it was like surrender. I thought it might have been the projectile vomiting, the explosive diarrhea, the chicken pox, the repeated fishing out of small objects in orifices—that wore him down. You know, when the kids were sick for real. Whatever it was, with his love of hypochondria over, he began to pressure me into “leaving the kids alone.” But I wouldn’t budge, “No one is gonna die on my watch!”

I turned to my siblings for comfort. One sister introduced me to some new herbal curatives. This particular sister was always consulting a nature-path and getting advice from “healing artists.” She also started carrying around a mason jar filled with fluid.

I asked her, “What is that?”
“It is a mixture of Honey, vinegar, and lemon juice. I call it huniger.”
“What is it for?”
“Digestion, allergies, arthritis, headaches. Basically, everything.”
“Why do you carry it in a glass jar, why not a plastic water bottle?”
“I don’t want chemicals leeching into my body from the plastic, but you can if you want to. I mean, it is your funeral, but whatever.”
“Ok, let me try some.”

It looked like urine and tasted about the same, but my sister swore that it was a cure-all.

Tooth decay? Huniger.
Flatulence? Huniger.
Gangrene? Huniger.
Stab yourself in the eye with a pencil? Huniger.

I became a huniger fanatic. Once I left my mason jar on the counter with the lid off. When I came back there was a fly floating in it. I screamed when I almost drank the fly but my children laughed.

“We were wondering if you would notice,” the little demons said maniacally.
“You put that fly in there?” I accused the little hellions.
“It was just a joke mom. Besides that stuff stinks.”

That is when I realized, the disease I was fighting was not mythical, not made up, I didn’t need to have hypochondria; I had a real illness. It is the pathological organism known as children. They were trying to kill me.

My mother said, “At some point children go from passively trying to kill you, to actively trying to off you. As evidence I submit to you: teenage drivers. I rest my case.”

This knowledge changed my life. I am now free of the burden of hypochondria. Yes, folks the pendulum has swung the other way, I am now my mother.

“Mom, I have a stomachache.”
“No fever. No vomit. No blood. Go to school and stop trying to destroy me.”
“But Mom, I feel sick.”
“Me too. That is what 25 hours of back-labor without an epidural but WITH forceps will do to ya.”
“But Mom . . .”
“And don’t come home until the last bell rings. Mommy needs a nap.”

What's up Doc?

Why is it that people think medical doctors are so perfect? I go to the doctor and tell him that something hurts and then he pokes me in that spot and says, “You mean here?” I think that is a little sadistic. It is like he has all this power and is trying to decide if he should use it for good or evil. And do I say anything to him, like maybe “Hey cut that out” or a “No I am not going to tell you how much I weigh.” No. No, I do not. Why? Because that little piece of paper on the wall that says PhD is like Kryptonite, it keeps me from disagreeing with him. I am powerless against his years of residency and his stethoscope. It is like he is not even human but a higher form of life that can only unlock the secrets to good health with a full-coverage medical plan and an 80-20 deductible.

Everyone says you should ask for a second opinion if you are unsure of the diagnosis, but what good does that do? It makes no sense to go and ask a second doctor, that I am also afraid of, if he thinks his peer is right or wrong. That is like asking a nurse to be gentle when she is inserting a catheter—there is no point.

Recently I was accosted by my doctor for not putting my sons in cub scouts. She gave me and my children a 20 minute lecture on why we should participate in the historic outdoorsy club. Why you ask? I have no idea. Does she know someone that works for the cub scouts? I couldn’t say. Does she get kick-backs from the BSA? Not sure. Is she crazy? More than likely.

Even though this particular doctor over-stepped some boundaries, I sat there like an idiot and didn’t say a word. It was like listening to your parents tell you how disappointed they are in you; you are still in the room but you are mentally dozing in and out of consciousness. Regardless, the conversation made me think of what it would take for me to stand up to my doctor. So, I came up with a list of things that if a physician said to me would really push me over the edge. I came up with 50 things that I would not want to hear from my doctor and would finally force me to put my foot down.

1. Wow, I have never seen one that looks like that before.
2. I’ve decided to do my part to save the environment, so I won’t be using tongue depressors any more. Instead, I am just gonna stick my finger in there.
3. Did anybody see where did I put that last sponge?
4. I got my PhD from Phoenix online.
5. Does this white coat make my butt look fat?
6. Now, is the heart on the right or the left, I always forget?
7. Can you hold on just a second, I have to update my Facebook status?
8. Wow, has anyone ever told you that you have crazy-weird eyes?
9. Have you made your peace with God? Do you have a will? Am I in it?
10. How did my watch get in there?
11. Pull my finger.
12. I have had three espressos today and I feel a little jittery. But don’t worry; I am totally ready to do your vasectomy.
13. How good is your insurance coverage? Like, new boat good, or like new RV good?
14. Do you mind if these students come in to watch your procedure? They have never seen electric shock therapy before.
15. My last patient was such a nice woman, God rest her soul.
16. I used to work at the prison giving lethal injections.
17. Oh boy that was close; your name was one letter off from the guy next door getting a sex change.
18. Just count back from 100, I can almost guarantee, you won’t feel a thing.
19. I just don’t know if I can be a doctor anymore, I have decided to become an artist.
20. Who farted?
21. Get undressed and put on this little paper gown. No, I don’t really need you to undress for this exam; I just wanted to see if you would.
22. That third bean burrito I had for lunch has my intestines feeling like a ticking time bomb!
23. We are required by law to tell you that your anesthesiologist is a registered sex offender.
24. Have you looked up your symptoms using WebMD? What did it say I should do?
25. Our practice is going green; please excuse the stains on the paper sheet.
26. I tried this medication on my dog and he woke up after only a few days. He was a little groggy, but mostly fine.
27. Would you mind holding this scalpel for just a sec? I have an itch.
28. My favorite movies are Saw I, Saw II, and Saw III.
29. Sorry I look a little disheveled; I have been living out of my car.
30. Dude, I feel like I am gonna puke.
31. May I interest you in an exam room cocktail?
32. I like to use alternative therapies when I can. How do you feel about leeches?
33. That Dr. Seuss totally cracks me up!
34. Do you think I look better as a blonde or a brunette?
35. Have I ever showed you a picture of my cat? He’s my baby.
36. I will be with you in just a minute, I need to smoke a cigarette and finish this beer and box of donuts.
37. Hey, you wanna shock each other with these paddles?
38. Does my breath smell like potato salad to you?
39. Oops! Well, don’t worry, I can reattach that. I think.
40. Our office is trying to be more efficient, so we put a coin-operated medication dispenser in the lobby.
41. Can I tell you about the troubles I am having with my boyfriend? I really need to talk.
42. You should check out my you tube video, in it I am playing “If you want my body” by Rod Stewart, on the clarinet, with my nose. I have gotten 50,000 hits so far.
43. I’ve got an idea, let’s get matching tattoos!
44. Buck up and come back when you’ve got a real problem.
45. Text me your symptoms and I’ll tweet you my diagnosis.
46. I don’t even know how to pronounce what it is that you have.
47. I am also a Mary Kay consultant, so with your exam, you get a free make-over.
48. Can I have a sample of your hair for my collection?
49. I don’t believe in diseases or illness. I believe in Karma. Your chakra is blue and your aura is red, so go home, light up some incense and think calming thoughts.
50. Your heart goes bu-du-bu-du-bu-du, but mine goes ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump. Freaky.

Well, I hope your physician hasn’t said any of these things to you. It is a new year and we should start with a clean slate, with hope for a better tomorrow. If your doctor does say strange things to you tell them to stop. After all, a doctor is just a person like you and me. They get up in the morning and put their pants on one leg at a time. They are way more expensive pants, and they get dressed in a huge master closet with a little seat thing and don’t have to balance holding on to a rickety bed frame, and the whole house probably smells like potpourri, and their pants are probably ironed and clean, and not grabbed from a pile on the floor, but they get dressed. Just like you. Just like me. And that is my point.