Because It's Probably Gangrene

I'm a recovering hypochondriac.

Okay, maybe I am not totally recovered.

I am a hypochondriac, but I am getting better about not freaking out when my hand falls asleep and I start to worry that it may have to be amputated due to a rare circulatory disease.

Wow, that's a mouthful.

When the subject of hypochondria comes up, I can't go running around saying, "Hi, my name is Susannah and I am a hypochondriac, but I am getting better about not freaking out when my hand falls asleep and I start to worry that it may have to be amputated due to a rare circulatory disease. How are you?"

I'm going to stick with I am a recovering hypochondriac.

My issues stemmed from watching my young daddy die of a heart attack when I was 11. I was home alone with him when I watched him take his last breath. And from that point forward, I was nervous. I was scared. I thought every tick was infected with Lyme Disease and every dog with missing patches of hair and frothing at the mouth had Rabies. Which clearly isn't the case.

I mean, some dogs are just meth heads and it's totally unfair to assume that they have Rabies. That's a low blow.

Google has intensified my hypochondria by 3 million point 5 percent. With every twinge or pain or sting, I race for Google, M.D. And Google, M.D. never eases my fears. Dr. Google only confirms the worst.

"That could be nipple chafing OR breast cancer. Probably breast cancer."

"That could be indigestion OR a heart attack. Probably heart attack."

"That could an ingrown toenail OR Gangrene. Most definitely Gangrene."

Seriously. I was once diagnosed by Google, M.D. as having Gangrene. What the hell am I? A Confederate Soldier lying in a field at the Battle of Antietam?

No, I am a white girl, living in the year 2012, with toe pain because I cut my toenail too short. But, this is too simple for Google, M.D. Google M.D. wants to put some Ether on an old handkerchief, cover my nose and mouth, and then hack my toe off with a rusted blade because I have Gangrene.

The following is a true story. I swear I couldn't make this shit up, even if I were drinking eight 8 ounce glasses of Jaager bombs throughout the day. 

One night, while lying in bed and trying desperately to fall asleep, I smelled bread. I thought it was really weird. So, out of curiosity, boredom, and craziness, I grabbed my phone off my night stand and I googled, "I smell bread."

I was having a stroke.

No lie. Go google "I smell bread". A ton of pages pop up about how smelling bread is a sign of a stroke. I had no clue this was possible. I just wanted to google "I smell bread." I didn't know it was a death sentence.

I freaked out for 45 minutes until I turned on the light and looked around my bed for any source of bread smells. Turns out one of my kids had carelessly swiped a crescent roll from the kitchen and dropped it under my nightstand.

Thanks, Dr. Google. I was prepared to meet the White Light when the source of my problem was a Pillsbury crescent roll.

I am a firm believer that if you worry about pain, you will feel pain. I once read an article about blood clots in the legs. This is most definitely terrible reading material for a hypochondriac. I swear to you that within 45 minutes of reading that horror piece, my calf was throbbing. It wasn't imaginary throbbing. I was really exhibiting the signs of a blood clot. And then I forgot about it. And my calf forgot about it, too. And then everything was cool until I saw a news report on some kind of sick brain eating worms that you can get from eating sushi. I don't even eat sushi, but after a ham sandwich, my head hurt. And I just knew a worm was going to fall out of my ear.

My godfather died suddenly of a heart attack a few months ago and I reached a breaking point where I just couldn't take anymore. I literally threw my hands up to God and screamed, "I can't keep worrying like this!" And I sat down and sobbed. I noticed a shaving knick on my knee, worried for a minute that it was going to turn to staph, and then I cried to God again.

And you know what? I am better. Worry only robs us of our happiness and never does any good. And if everything turns out okay, you've done all that worrying for nothing. I just dropped some knowledge on you. You like that?

I don't flip the F out at every bump or bruise or ingrown hair. I don't run to Google every time my body does something totally batshit crazy. I don't go to the doctor at least 3 times a month, asking him to get out his magnifying glass because I swear there was a malignant liver spot on my hand this morning.

I really am better.

For instance, I've had some weird bump on my cheekbone for a month. And despite my mother having skin cancer multiple times, and the fact that I tan with Mayflies, and the fact that it shows all the symptoms of basal carcinoma, I calmly made my dermatologist appointment and am calmly waiting out the 2 weeks until I can go and be told it's probably some weird zit.

If this were the old me, I would have been rushing to the ER with my flashers on at the first sign of the bump and asking for a lancing ASAP.

"I have a zit! Gather your surgeons and meet me in the O.R. STAT, people!"

But, I'm waiting it out. Calmly.

I swear that bump has grown within the 32 seconds I have been typing about it.

But, I'm waiting it out. Calmly.

Do not worry about anything; instead pray about everything.
Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done.
Philippians 4:6