The Last Waltz With Hypochondria

Don’t Google Lung Cancer

Yes, I know that I’m supposed to go to the doctor EVERY year…blood work, breast smooshing, and uterine invasion.

I, however, am on a three-year physician-visiting cycle. After year one, I’m okay because I’m only slightly off the recommended standard. Year two comes around and I think that I should really take about three months, eat healthy foods and drop ten pounds before I go in. As year three approaches, every twinge, previously unnoticed blemish and throat clearing is clearly symptomatic of a life ending condition that, had I gone to the doctor three years earlier, would have been averted.

I used to be superb about appointments. In fact, I tangoed intimately with hypochondria — an MRI for a headache, ultrasounds for back pain, and why do I have a hard time swallowing sometimes?

But then I had kids and the stakes of something horrible happening to me sky rocketed. Having them didn’t make me more vigilant. It paralyzed me.

As year three approaches, every twinge, previously unnoticed blemish and throat clearing is clearly symptomatic of a life ending condition that, had I gone to the doctor three years earlier, would have been averted.

I wasn’t reckless with my health, but, going to the doctor and finding out something horrible terrified me.

And so it has gone for the last eighteen years.

This year as I was approaching the three-year mark, after six weeks of coughing sometimes to the point of near vomiting, there was no internal negotiation. I had to call Dr. Louie.

“Yes, I know…I should have come sooner. 2 weeks from having my records sent to your archives? Oh…. Well, I dodged that bullet, didn’t, I?”

Not even a snort from the receptionist on that one.

This year as I was approaching the three-year mark, after six weeks of coughing sometimes to the point of near vomiting, there was no internal negotiation. I had to call Dr. Louie.

A week later sitting on the doctor’s table shivering for more reasons than that the blue hospital frock might as well be crepe paper (do I tie it in the front or the back?), my no-nonsense doctor set her stethoscope on my back and instructed me to inhale deeply.

“Hhmmm..well, I do hear something on this lower left side.”

fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck

Did she really have to say that? I mean, she was going to send me for x-rays anyway. Was this her clever way of ensuring that I didn’t bolt for another three years?

Blood work, x-rays.

Stay away from Google.

Don’t google lung cancer.

Well, of course, I googled lung cancer.

Fuck.

Two days later, I got an email directing me to open up my online chart. My racing heart throbbed in my ears as I tried to direct my fingers to type the url.

Password. What is the password?

Test results? Is that where I look?

Dr. Louie’s note lets me know that I don’t have pneumonia. She tells me that is a good thing. She doesn’t mention lung cancer. My whole body is limp with relief.

Wait a minute?

Did she even check for lung cancer?

Fuck.