The girl who cried wolf.

My mom used to ask me if I was going to die before or after dinner, if she should set me a place setting or not.I'm the girl who disinfects my own toothbrush with hydrogen peroxide every morning because I'm so grossed out by germs and getting sick.  I'm what you call a hypochondriac.  To the extreme.  In my brain I have literally had every terminal disease to grace this beautiful earth, and somehow I've seemed to make it out alive.  I've got this gift of learning or hearing about something and INSTANTLY convincing myself I have the symptoms.  I don't do it for attention, it's a real issue.    Sometimes I get so freaked out I can't continue on with my day because all I can think about is how I'm going to die.  If I look at the big picture I know I'm fine, but until I'm convinced I'll be OK it's the end of the world in my brain.  For instance, about a month ago I had a hangnail on my left pinkie finger that got crazy infected.  My little finger swelled up so large it looked like it was going to explode.  A vienna sausage if you will.  Now most of you are thinking this isn't a big deal but in my brain I had cancer.  Yup, the reason my hangnail got infected is because I have some sort of cancer.  I've read in my travels somewhere a long the way that excessive hang nails and infections can be a sign of cancer.  Mind you I work at Trader Joe's which means although I may seem like the delicate little flower that I am, from Saturday to Wednesday I have man-hands from opening boxes, cutting myself on God knows what and smashing my fingers between canned goods and metal shelves all day.  Which could lead to an infected hang-nail.  Nope, I had cancer.  I called my mom 6 times that day so she could assure me I was OK, and she didn't call back till almost midnight.  Co-workers made fun of me because I couldn't concentrate on anything, I broke out in tears at one point because I was so freaked and was ready to clock out and go to the ER to get the thing cut off.  Obviously I ended up fine and in case you're wondering, my pinkie has lost some weight and is doing fantastically.

Now on the Eve of my 29th birthday I woke up with a weird feeling in my body.  I felt dizzy and nauseated all at the same time.  Not too intense, but enough to make my brain rattle.  I brushed it off and told myself it was nothing since 20 minutes before I had this feeling I downed a 16 oz. double espresso from Coffee Bean.  Two days before this, September 10, my mom and I went to a wine bar by her house to do a little wine tasting in honor of her birthing me 29 years ago.  What seemed to be was going to be a chill night ended up the exact opposite.  I woke up the following morning with 9 cuts and bruises all over my body and a mean pain in my left elbow.  Some friends from High School that I haven't hung with in maybe 10 years happened to be at the bar next door so we merged parties and the rest is history.  The first boy to ever break my heart was there, who I haven't seen since High School graduation so of course I felt a little awkward.  The F.A. (standing for Fucking Asshole) is what we'll call him as that is what he was appropriately known as back in the day in the Rodriguez household.  So you're probably wondering why I woke up with 9 cuts and bruises and a mean pain in my left elbow the following morning.  The FA beat the shit out of me.  Not literally, but literally.  What started out to be a fun night at the bar ended up being a mock wrestling match between the FA and I at one of his friends house.  Drinks, repressed anger and lots of laughter don't make for a clean bout. Clearly I lost.  Back to the bruises.  They were the kind you look at and say "what the fuck happened to you, Chelsea?".  Kind of embarrassing and not normal.  So of course, in my brain I have some sort of cancer.  Because again, I've read somewhere in my travels that excessive bruising means cancer.  No bueno.  So lots of bruises in a matter of hours and feelings of dizziness and nausea are a perfect recipe for cancer.  I'm not going to live to see 29 I told myself.  So after a week of having this strange feeling and watching my bruises come and go I researched and decided I was anemic.  So I made myself a doctors appointment.  Just so you know, I don't do doctors.  I'm the hypochondriac that won't go to the doctor or take medicine for anything.  I'd rather not know there's really something wrong than go find out and freak myself out even more.  Weird, I know.  So I show up to my doctors appointment ( after hours of convincing myself not to flake because I was scared to find out there's really something wrong) and sit on the table with the crinkly white paper and a blood pressure cuff around my arm.  123/82 is my blood pressure.  "Your body temperature is 98.5.  OK, Chelsea, the doctor should be right with you." the nurse said.  "Hi, I'm doctor (whatever the hell his name was).  Nice to meet you!  Can you tell me what's wrong with you today?"  "Umm, well to start I just want to warn you I'm crazy.  I'm a hypochondriac and I think I'm anemic.  I've researched and I swear I'm anemic.", I said to him.  He stared at me like I just escaped the looney bin and ran straight to his office.  "Well can you tell me why you think you're anemic?" he asked.  So I told him.  "I bruise easy, I've had dizzy spells, blah blah blah", I told him.  "What else?" he asked again.  "Umm, nothing.  I think that's it." I replied.  "Well from what you're telling me I think you're fine.  Let me take some blood just in case to see what's going on inside of you."  "Umm, what?  What are you going to test?" I asked.  "Your blood cell count, cholesterol, coagulation, blood sugar, etc. etc."  So at this point in my brain I'm thinking "holy shit, I'm really going to find out I'm dying.  What the hell am I thinking coming here?" And before I know it there are 3 viles of my blood on the counter.  "Ok, just pee in this cup and leave it on the counter.  I call you tomorrow with your results." the doctor said.  "OMG, I can't do this!", I thought to myself.  There's certainly no turning back at this point-he's already holding my blood for ransom and he's going to poke and play with it as much as he wants to until he finds something wrong.  So after a day of no sleep and lots of worry The Doc calls me.  "Hello, Chelsea?"  "Yeah, it's me", I said.  "Well I got your results back," he said with all seriousness, "and it looks like you're perfectly healthy.  You seem to be dehydrated.  Do you drink a lot of water?", he asked.  I do.  All I drink is water.  Except during the month of September.  Every friend I know has a birthday, including myself so for a 30 day period it ends up being one long party.  Every year, for the last 40 million years.  Which explains a lot.  "And there's no reason you should be bruising so easy, so just make sure you drink more water.  Now that you're 29 try to resist the urge to go out so much and take care of your body", he said to me.  Thanks for making me feel better, Doc.  I felt like I was getting reprimanded after coming home late from curfew in high school by my mother.  It took a mere anxiety attack, 3 viles of blood and a cup of my own urine to make me feel like an ass by my new doctor.  I knew I hated them for a reason, and this just confirmed it.  From now on I'm going to stick to my previous methods of healing, save a few pints of blood and take a deep breath because I'm fine.  He told me so.

Till next time.

CIAO!!