Hi, my name is Claire …. and I’m a hypochondriac. Is there a twelve-step program for that?
You may have all heard the term, hypochondriac, but for those who don’t know what it is; a hypochondriac is someone who whole heartedly believes they have, have had, or might one day have, every disease, illness or injury known to man. That’s me—Claire Copeland.
It all started when I was six years-old when my mother refused to take me to a doctor after I had taken a hard fall on the concrete playground at Sycamore Elementary School. I screamed, cried, and whined for a day and a half proclaiming I had broken my arm. Mom thought I was being overly dramatic and emotional—which I probably was—because I was six years old. However, as it turned out, I was right. I had fractured my wrist in two places, and that kick-started my “hypochondriaciness.” Is that a word? It is now.
It doesn’t help that I am the one in my family who seems to get sick and injured the most.
If I have the slightest discoloration on any part of my body, I’m immediately on Web MD going deeper and deeper down a rabbit hole for a diagnosis that confirms that I have some type of rare internal bleeding or flesh-eating bacteria that could cause my death the next day.
I have managed to self-diagnose myself with ringworm, several stress fractures, anemia, hypertension, an infected gall bladder, rabies, distemper, and four different forms of cancer. I also constantly think that I’m pregnant. It wouldn’t matter if I was celibate for years because I would inevitably think God has chosen ME to be the next Virgin Mary, except I’m the Virgin Claire. Sadly, if I were to have an immaculate conception pregnancy, I’d probably have an immaculate miscarriage.
I can’t smoke or inhale anything because I actually do have asthma and apparently one puff of a cigarette, joint, or vape pen could make my lungs explode. That would be rather icky. I also did have COVID. Really, I did. What, you don’t believe me? I have the antibodies to prove it, but since I’ve now been vaccinated you can’t have them.
Much like that Tweet that went around months ago, my favorite game to play is “What is Causing my Headache?” Is it, A) I’ve had my hair up in a high tight ponytail for the past three days; B) I am severely dehydrated and refuse to drink an appropriate amount of water; C) I’m running on lack of sleep and lack of caffeine or D) I have a brain tumor, which will likely lead to a brain aneurysm? That’s right, the only logical answer is D, so, I’ll likely be dead by morning. Hopefully I’ll go peacefully in my sleep. It was nice knowing all of you.
I’m pretty sure at this point I should skip med school and just become a doctor since clearly, I am already qualified at misdiagnosing illnesses and ailments based on a limited number of symptoms and medical history, just like a real doctor. I should have started my medical career in middle school like Doogie Howser. Doogie Howser M.D. was a very entertaining television show about a teenage doctor that ran from 1989 – 1993. Thank goodness for Hulu.
Did I mention I come from a medical family? My grandfather was a well-respected optometrist, which is an eye doctor. He talked about eyeballs 24/7. This probably explains my propensity toward glaucoma, cataracts, and AMD (age related macular degeneration).
My mom is an occupational therapist, which means she thinks she’s a doctor. She has a medical answer for everything. I used to take a million pictures of my occasional scratches, bruises, or rashes and send them to her to help me figure out what was wrong with me. Her usual diagnosis was, “nothing is wrong with you.” Her prescription was usually, “stop being such a hypochondriac.” I don’t even turn to her anymore since clearly her lack of judgment got me here in the first place, and I’m far more qualified than she is based on my years of research and private practice.
It’s hard being a hypochondriac. I’m always wondering when my last day on earth might be, just in-case I’m that one-in-a-million person who randomly drops dead from some mysterious disease, virus, or hang-nail that’s never been heard of before. Could that tingling in my leg turn out to be some form of diabetes that would require my leg to be amputated? They are making some really cool prosthetics these days, so maybe if I did actually lose a limb, I might eventually be able to run faster. You never know?
Somehow, I have defied the odds and managed to survive despite living in this Petri Dish environment along the I-680 corridor. I always seem to find a miracle cure for my mysterious bodily injuries and illnesses, or they just as mysteriously fade away on their own. Usually, almost always—okay, always—it’s nothing and I just created unneeded panic in my head.
If this hypochondria life sounds daunting, it is, but it keeps me busy and out of real trouble, like living a life of crime. I’ve also been told, now that I’m an adult woman, that wine is a wonderful medicinal treatment for most ailments.
I’ll have to prescribe that the next time I start to panic.