I am a hypochondriac

According to the dictionary, hypochondria is the persistent conviction that one is or is likely to become il, often involving symptoms when illness is neither present nor likely, and persisting despite reassurance and medical evidence to the contrary. A hypochondriac is a person affected with hypochondria. I began doing some research on the issue when I was married and I guess when you are married you started discussing your problems with your spouse and their problems become your problems and when my husband stated that he thought I might be a hypochondriac, it caused me to look at do some retrospective self-analysis. I would have to say that “it” (the beginning of my persistent convictions) all started when I was young and had bladder problems. I recall being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night because I wet the bed AGAIN. I would be taken on what I thought was a secret late night mission with my parents. Where were we going, why so late? I realized we were going to the doctor and I realized quickly that the doctor meant a lot of attention for me. Nurses would give me suckers and ask me questions and call me sweetie or honey. I liked the doctors more than the nurses. From an early age I learned that a doctor’s role was to listen to me and listen carefully. So when I got a brother at age three, I think I realized that I had to go the extra step to get attention. But I was a pretty healthy kid. But I wanted to be sick, I wanted something to be wrong with me. My parents love to tell the story about me and the baby Tylenol and I remember it clearly. I was just three or four years old and I really liked the taste of baby Tylenol. I distinctly remember going into our bathroom, getting out the baby Tylenol that had a dropper application and I drank the whole bottle. I then went and told my parents that I would NEVER get sick again. They asked how come and I explained. Then I got my stomach pumped. In First Grade, Melissa Betran knocked my front tooth out on the playground. I remember lying in the nurses room on her bed and every single one of my classmates had to come in and give me a get well card. Even Melissa. I remember she had to apologize and she was crying. It was great. The next event I recall occurred when I was in fourth grade. I decided that I wanted glasses and began complaining to my parents that I could not see to read. They took me to the optometrist. I distinctly recall “throwing” the exam so that I could get glasses. I think all of my friends had glasses (even though they hated them, I wanted them). At some point during the exam I began to panic and realized I did not want glasses. I managed to get my act together just in time to be determined “borderline” and not needing glasses. In Fifth grade I got mononucleosis. I had no idea what attention was until I got mono. I stayed home for over a month. All I could eat was beef broth and scrambled eggs. I became addicted to General Hospital. My father would come home at 10 am, noon at 2 pm during the day to check on me. I would quickly turn off the soap operas (they were not allowed) and resume my half asleep look on the couch. Now don’t get me wrong, I was REALLY sick but I loved the attention. I remember begging to go back to school and my parents telling me it was too soon. One of my first days back I recall walking down the hallway and all of the sudden someone told me I turned white and then I fainted. My parents rushed to the school, I had a bruise on my face. Strict words from my parents that we were not going to rush this “school thing” and I would be staying home until they decided I was well enough to go half days. I felt really loved. Thinking back on how all of my real and fake illnesses transpired, I realized that I get my hypochondria from my father. My grandmother (my mother’s mother) had a good friend Stu who lived on her couch from time to time. He was a roofer but also a drinker and my grandma always said that those two things did not go together very well. Often Stu would be passed out on my Grandma’s sofa. Stu sort of became a fixture in my Grandma’s living room. Sometimes sober and nice to carry a conversation along with and sometimes not. It was my freshmen year in high school when Stu’s health took a turn for the worse. He was a big smoker and when he began to lose a significant amount of weight in a short time and cough up blood, I guess we all just thought the obvious—cancer. I remember when my Grandma called to tell me that Stu went to the hospital and that he was transferred to Iowa City (that was where the University hospital was located and if you went to the University hospital, it was serious). I expected my grandma to tell me that Stu had Cancer, but instead she told me he had been quarantined for tuberculosis. My mind raced. I knew this disease was contagious. Highly contagious. I seemed to recall it was deadly. Quarantined. Yes, I recalled that they had special hospitals for these people in the 1950s where they kept them all in solitude until they died off and the disease was allegedly eradicated from the United States. Well, instant tears fell from my face. Not for Stu, for me. My Grandma explained that the head of the hospital was out of town for the weekend and we could not be sure until he returned, but that the attending physician believed it was TB. My mother happened to be out of town that weekend (she will tell people it was the one and only time she left home with girlfriends for a weekend away from her family). I called her with the devastating news. Her entire family and herself were likely infected with TB. I distinctly remember my dad saying “it is highly contagious, if he has it, your grandmother has it and we all have it.” I raced to the encyclopedia (1978 version we got at a garage sale but let’s face it, the TB section has not been updated since the 1960s, so it didn’t matter). I read up on the disease I was certain I had and waited for my mother to return home. According to the dictionary, you could tell if you had TB if it was difficult to breathe and your chest felt heavy. Oh, I had it. I spent the entire weekend obsessing. My family loves to tell this story and especially when I announced tearfully over dinner that if anyone had to have TB, it should be me. After my weekend is of torture is over, we learn that Stu actually had lung cancer not TB. I was so relieved.