I’m a worrier.
I worry about all the typical stuff a woman/wife/mother tends to: dishes, laundry, bills, the hubunk finding a job, my children’s health, work, that fabulous yacht we’re going to buy and travel the world in… blah, blah, blah. The daily grind. It’s a worrisome life.
But I have this problem. Some might call it undue stress. Or obsession. Or compulsion. Or even hypochondria. My husband would probably say that I am a stressed out obsessive-compulsive hypochondriac.
Why? Well let me start at the beginning, my friends.
For as long as I can remember, I have felt that I could, and possibly/probably would, pass on at any moment.
Lights out. Kick the bucket. Give up the ghost.
I remember being 8 years old, lying awake at night, panicking like no child should, believing I was having a heart attack and death was imminent.
And despite the fact that I quite obviously did not die back then, nor since, I still have my little problem.
I can tell you all right now, the hubunk is going to read this, and he is going to roll his eyes and moan because he has heard about my plethora of “ailments” since day one (and counting). In fact, it seems to have gotten worse since I’ve had children. I fear for their lives as much as I do my own (as a good mother should, right?). But poor Aaron. He is the unfortunate man called upon to be my diagnostic trash can, at whom I throw every symptom (real and imaginary), every speculative concern, every pathetic wail of “What is wrong with me?!”
Allow me to let you in on this wondrous part of his life.
If I get a headache that won’t seem to go away, I have a brain tumor. Or an aneurysm. There is a good chance I will have a stroke.
If I have a pain in my side for more than an hour, I have cancer (in various organs). Probably incurable.
Chest pressure? Heart palpitations? Shortness of breath? A pain in my left arm?! Certainly a heart attack.
If my hair seems to be falling out more than usual, it’s got to be lupus.
Leg ache? Definitely deep vein thrombosis.
Skin growth? Melanoma, without a doubt.
Fate has certainly been unkind, right? And who knows what I’ll contract next? The Avian flu?
West Nile? That
flesh-eating disease that works so quickly they have to hack off your limbs
before it eats the rest of you? I’ll be pushing up daisies at any minute.
I could go on. But I won’t waste your time telling you all about the symptoms and diseases I [don’t] have. I’ve got WebMd Symptom Checker for that (and my stats are already pre-filled in those little boxes anyway).
And if I do happen to, shall we say, up and croak… no autopsy will be necessary. Just check my Google search history. Oh, and tell them not to play The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young” at the funeral. I’ve decided it doesn’t quite represent my life. Perhaps LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” might suffice?
P.S./Disclaimer: This post is in now way meant to be derogatory to those who actually suffer from these diseases. I just wanted to sarcastically point out the fact that I am a worrier without a cause, hopefully scare up a few sympathetic friends’ comments, and put my mind at ease. No offense is intended, so please don’t take it.
Or do, but don’t leave me any nasty feedback. I already worry too much, remember?