Who Needs a Good Memory When THIS Is the Stuff You Can Remember?

I have an awesome memory. Now hold on. Before you get all annoyed and like, "What's SHE bragging about?" let me clarify. I can't remember anything remotely useful, such as:

• Directions to my dermatologist's office, even though I've been there three times
• How to perform CPR
• Where I put the charger for my phone

What *can* I remember? Symptoms of practically every terrifying and deadly disease out there. Can you die from it or be disfigured by it? I can rattle off a few symptoms (and probably have a handful right now). Sure, they might also be symptoms of something completely benign, but that never, ever stops me from leaping to the worst possible conclusion the instant I notice something odd.

Apart from symptoms of awful diseases, there are a few choice nuggets I can mine from my Cave of Early Memories...fond moments, such as my sister referring to me as "cigarette butt," which was infuriating because technically it wasn't rude, even though it had the word "butt" in it. Or the time I convinced a boy chum that we didn't really need to go inside to poo; we could go right in the yard and use leaves for toilet paper. (Many years later I ran into him in 5th grade and, struggling for something to say, asked him if he remembered that incident. He claimed he did not. He then avoided me for the rest of middle school.)

A seminal moment in my, er, development into a full-blown hypochondriac was likely the time my sister told me that one in four persons get cancer, meaning someone in our family would get it. I was a wee lass, still believing everything my sister said (e.g., that trading my jaunty blue jeep for the crappy wooden car/cigarette holder my parents apparently would slide down the table to smoking guests at lavish dinner parties) was a good deal. Judge for yourselves:

This isn't the exact one we had, but it was pretty similar. Cool, right?

Here's what I traded THAT for:

"Ha ha! Ms. CrankyPants, you sure were a dumbass!"

Now, 30+ years later, the wooden cigarette car has a certain charm. Heck, I still have it; who knows what happened to the jeep? The point is, as a wee lass playing with Little People, I was getting the short end of the stick for sure. I mean, the Little People didn't even FIT into the wooden P.O.S. car:

Hey, that balding chap on the right was the dad in my Little People family. I named him Sir Jeffrey Brown, but my sister insisted on calling him Sir Jeffrey POO Brown. 

The Little People's bottoms were too fat to fit into the slots that were designed not for Little People, but for an attractive array of cigarettes. ("Joe? Care for another Virginia Slim?" my mom might say, wheeling the wooden car past admiring guests and toward the extremely impressed Joe.)

So back to the game and my ill-advised trade. We'd be playing at driving somewhere, and my people would be falling off the wooden P.O.S. car from their precarious position resting atop the vehicle, while my sister's Little People would trundle along in their jeep like gangbusters. It was Very Annoying Indeed.

How any of that relates to my original point, I have NO idea. Oh, right, seminal moments, blossoming hypochondria and all. So, yes, an impressionable and gullible wee lass turned into a raving lunatic who has to go tomorrow for an ultrasound to investigate a "swelling" in the neck. If you don't think I've conjured up every horrendous scenario that might result from tomorrow's test, well, I have. And then some. Plus 10 and to the 100th power. Etc.

Wish me luck. I'll be wearing my tiny bluebird of happiness earrings, bracelets I bought in New York City for some ridiculous price that have little charms that are supposed to bring good luck, and, what the heck -- I might even tuck Wee Squeaky into my purse for extra insurance. The thought of her smiling (mockingly? Kindly? Pityingly?) as I am sweating profusely and startling/annoying the technician with occasional hoots of nervous laughter and lame jokes might help. A wee bit.