I'm a bit like Haley Joel Osment's character in Sixth Sense, except that instead of seeing dead people, I see disease.
I have spent most of my life believing that the world is just one big medical disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes, this makes me look ridiculous. For example, back in first year, I ran up to the san and tearfully confided to the sister that I had shared a vigorous kiss the night before and might therefore need the morning after pill. Also, I'd had a drag on a cigarette and was worried about lung cancer as I was feeling a bit wheezy.
For the first six weeks of my pregnancy, James refused to listen to me talking about the baby I was certain was on the way, instead pointing out that the bulge which had appeared above my jeans was probably just cake. He may have been more receptive to my claims had I not been making them since the first time we smooched, even though I insisted on at least two forms of contraception at all times.
My phobia has not been helped by the Internet. Because I am able to hang out online with other - I will refrain from calling us hypochondriacs and instead use the term hypervigilant health people - I have turned casual incidents into all out crises. When Leya was just six months, a Google convinced me that her pronounced startle response was, in fact, a violent form of epilepsy that would leave her brain damaged within two months. Just last month, another online search had me gently warning my mother that I may not be much longer for this earth, as a skin irritation I had been experiencing was a sign of cancer. Of course, one phone call to my doctor set me straight - and set her laughing.
I'm coming to accept the fact that, if you look long enough on Google, everything - even a hang nail or dirty hair - can be a sign of cancer. But there are times when paranoia pays. For instance, last week I noticed our Jack Russell, Sherpa, had a suspicious looking sore. Other people would have thought, "hmm, now that really is a suspicious looking sore", but not I. I knew, with the certainty of one who knows that herpes lurks on rented snorkel masks and that while a sore throat might well be the first sign of the common cold, it is also the first sign of quincy, measles and HIV, that it was a tumour. And guess what? It was. You see? If you have everything you think is a tumour checked out, you will eventually save someone.
Now, seen through others' eyes, Sherpa is a particularly repugnant animal. Not only does he have a smell, he is given to inappropriate bouts of randiness with my father and 80-year-old neighbour. More worrying, there have been times when I've been kneeling to see to Leya and he has, Norman Bates-ishly, placed a paw on each of my hips. But that doesn't change the fact that he is my first born and you can't help the people you love.
So, thank you paranoia (sounds like an Alanis Morisette song, doesn't it). If it weren't for you, our noxious little fur kid would no longer be with us.
I have spent most of my life believing that the world is just one big medical disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes, this makes me look ridiculous. For example, back in first year, I ran up to the san and tearfully confided to the sister that I had shared a vigorous kiss the night before and might therefore need the morning after pill. Also, I'd had a drag on a cigarette and was worried about lung cancer as I was feeling a bit wheezy.
For the first six weeks of my pregnancy, James refused to listen to me talking about the baby I was certain was on the way, instead pointing out that the bulge which had appeared above my jeans was probably just cake. He may have been more receptive to my claims had I not been making them since the first time we smooched, even though I insisted on at least two forms of contraception at all times.
My phobia has not been helped by the Internet. Because I am able to hang out online with other - I will refrain from calling us hypochondriacs and instead use the term hypervigilant health people - I have turned casual incidents into all out crises. When Leya was just six months, a Google convinced me that her pronounced startle response was, in fact, a violent form of epilepsy that would leave her brain damaged within two months. Just last month, another online search had me gently warning my mother that I may not be much longer for this earth, as a skin irritation I had been experiencing was a sign of cancer. Of course, one phone call to my doctor set me straight - and set her laughing.
I'm coming to accept the fact that, if you look long enough on Google, everything - even a hang nail or dirty hair - can be a sign of cancer. But there are times when paranoia pays. For instance, last week I noticed our Jack Russell, Sherpa, had a suspicious looking sore. Other people would have thought, "hmm, now that really is a suspicious looking sore", but not I. I knew, with the certainty of one who knows that herpes lurks on rented snorkel masks and that while a sore throat might well be the first sign of the common cold, it is also the first sign of quincy, measles and HIV, that it was a tumour. And guess what? It was. You see? If you have everything you think is a tumour checked out, you will eventually save someone.
Now, seen through others' eyes, Sherpa is a particularly repugnant animal. Not only does he have a smell, he is given to inappropriate bouts of randiness with my father and 80-year-old neighbour. More worrying, there have been times when I've been kneeling to see to Leya and he has, Norman Bates-ishly, placed a paw on each of my hips. But that doesn't change the fact that he is my first born and you can't help the people you love.
So, thank you paranoia (sounds like an Alanis Morisette song, doesn't it). If it weren't for you, our noxious little fur kid would no longer be with us.
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