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.

The Big Scary

I did it. It took me 6 months, but I did it: I made an appointment to have a "swelling" in my neck looked at. First step is an ultrasound. Then, I suspect, will be a biopsy. Naturally, the imaging center was all set to take me immediately, but I still am not quite ready to face reality, so I scheduled the ultrasound for March 11. Enough time so I don't feel panicky right away, but soon enough that I can feel as though I'm Taking Care of Business. Business I should have taken care of in August, when the doctor first made note of it, but I'm trying to not beat myself up or let my mind wander to those dark places so familiar to a hypochondriac. For those of you who have normal patterns of thinking, I'll illustrate what I mean by that "dark places" bit.

The Scene: Medical office. Doctor is sitting somberly behind his desk, shaking his head sadly as he reviews my test results. I am perched on the very edge of a chair in front of his desk, sweating profusely and about to either faint, vomit, or both.

Sad Doctor: "Ms. CrankyPants, Ms. CrankyPants, Ms. CrankyPants...why, oh WHY didn't you get this looked at 6 months ago? We could have saved you! Now...it's far too late." [more sorrowful head shaking]

Panicky Ms. C-P: "Blkhjkdbgysnph!" [inarticulate mumbling, vomiting, or both]

Now-Annoyed Doctor: "Assistant! Remove Ms. CrankyPants from my office at once! See to it she doesn't soil the carpet. And be sure to get her co-payment!"

If I don't do something to stop it (like watch a trashy TV show or read gossip sites online), my terrifying little fantasy gets a lot more involved, but I don't want to totally depress you. So I'll switch to something cheerier:

I'm going bald! Yes, folks, there is an alarming patch of thinning hair that I'm seeing the dermatologist about next week. (Clearly, vanity propels me to the doctor a lot faster than a possibly life-threatening Suspicious Swelling.) Hopefully, the hair loss is caused by something delightful like a fungus that can be cleared up with a smelly and scalp-stinging shampoo, but I'm certainly open to other, deadlier, reasons for this latest addition to Things Wrong with Ms. CrankyPants. Even Capt. Nap is concerned disgusted.

"I can't look at your fungus-covered scalp! It's hideous!"

I'll keep you updated as these medical dramas unfold. In the meantime, I'm watching crap TV, wishing desperately that Dr. Swank's damn diet allowed chocolate, and trying not to touch my hair.

A Bad Trip, Man

I'm going to take you on a little trip. A little trip somewhere bad. For those of you trying to guess, no, it's not Chuck-E-Cheese, the grocery store on a Sunday morning, or the women's bathroom at my former workplace. Please see below for proof that the aforementioned women's bathroom was, indeed, a disaster and likely biohazard:

I'd expect this in a men's bathroom, but ladies, come on! 

Instead, I'm taking you INSIDE MY BRAIN. I was inspired to write this after reading a column in the New York Times by Woody Allen, which was referred to by Gene Weingarten in the Washington Post. I'm assuming most of you know who Woody Allen is. (Oh, dear, this reminds me of something I had blocked: a coworker once told me I reminded him of Woody Allen. I think it was Mr. Allen's mannerisms; God help me it if was his looks. I chose not to seek clarification.) Gene Weingarten, for those of you who don't know, is a writer -- a very funny writer -- who happens to be a hypochondriac.

Reading about hypochondriacs this morning made me realize I have a special little section of whack-o in my brain that's different from what Mr. Allen described. He mentioned racing to the doctor at the first sign of something amiss. I have the exact opposite reaction: studiously avoiding the doctor until either (a) something becomes physically unbearable or (b) I am worrying about it so much that I'm a hot mess, as the young whippersnappers say these days. At least, they were saying it the last time I checked. Word!

That I have freakish levels of doctor-related fears is a given. But I'm curious about you. Some of you have said you relate to my panic at noting a new symptom. When you experience something weird, do you go to the doctor right away? Or do you stew, bury your head in the sand, and worry like I do? I hope not, as it's an incredibly unproductive way to respond, especially when you have MS and a new symptom practically every other day. But since this blog has introduced me to so many people in my boat, I'm very interested in learning how you, my new friends, cope.

To your physical and mental health!
Ms. CrankyPants

The Suspicious Mole

I recently had a Highly Suspicious Mole (HSM) on my back. I was 99% sure it was cancerous (and had spread to distant organs), but I successfully avoided having a doctor look at it until I accidentally scratched it and it started bleeding. Somehow, the Highly Suspicious Bleeding Mole became an item I thought needed professional attention.

Now, I had given the HSM plenty of unprofessional attention in the form of:

1. Craning my neck to peer at it in the mirror every time I got out of the shower to see if it had changed color or gotten bigger. Or, perhaps it had vanished overnight! (This never happens, by the way.)  
2. Asking my husband to examine it and provide his assessment. He said it looked weird and that I should see a doctor. I stopped asking him after that.
3. Studying pictures on the Internet. (Tip: unless you want to give yourself nightmares, I strongly recommend against Googling "suspicious mole." There are many terrifying pictures.)
4. Poking, picking, scratching, prying, and prodding at the HSM in an effort to determine changes to its texture. 

Readers, I know what you're thinking.

"Gee, I sure hope she took a picture of this Highly Suspicious Mole!"

These are hushpuppies. But one of them could have passed for my mole.

It grieves me to report that I did not take a photo. I did, however, find a picture I took of some hushpuppies, which I think you'll see resemble a disagreeable mole. They resemble mine, anyway.

So there I was, a revolting bloody mole on my back. I called the dermatologist's office. I was displeased when they said they could see me that very week. Aren't dermatologists supposed to be fully booked for months on end? Because it would have seemed odd if I'd asked for a much later date so I could, you know, prepare myself for crushing news, I accepted the appointment and glumly hung up the phone.

Yes, I realize that this approach makes zero rational sense. Intellectually, of COURSE I know that it's better to get things checked out right away, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, but the irrational part of me vastly prefers the "ignore it and it might go away" approach (please see Item 1 in the list above), even though it never, ever works.

Back to the bloody mole. The day of my appointment was upon me in no time and I found myself hunched in the waiting room, which felt entirely too hot. No one else seemed to be perspiring. And why was everyone so calm? I covertly checked out my fellow patients. Did anyone have anything that appeared contagious? I detected no open, weeping sores, and there weren't any patients engaged in frenzied scratching, so I went back to trying to focus on my book.

I'd read the same paragraph four times when a nurse called my name. I fumbled around, grabbing my book, purse, coat, scarf, phone, and water bottle and shuffled along behind her. We exchanged some pleasantries:

"Hi, Ms. CrankyPants, why are you here?"

"Oh, just to have this mole looked at."

I showed her the mole. It is at this point in almost every appointment that I lapse into full-on sweaty, panicky, jokey Ms. CrankyPants. My most recent appointment went a little something like this:

[as nurse was prodding at HSM]

Me: "SO! Bet you wish you had taken today off, huh? HAHAHA! This probably isn't too pleasant, is it? HAHAHAHA! See how it's bleeding? Yeah, I accidentally scratched it. Now it keeps bleeding! HAHAHAHA! That's a bad sign, isn't it? Does it look bad to you? Have you seen ones that look like this before? Hey, where are you going?!"

[as nurse was fleeing the room to get the doctor]

The doctor entered, brisk and businesslike. He was probably warned by the nurse that there was a manic 10-year-old girl in Exam Room 2 who seemed on the verge of some sort of fit.

Me: "SO! HAHAHA! I guess..."

Dr.: "Ms. CrankyPants. We're going to remove that mole and have it biopsied. You'll have the results in less than a week."

Me: "HAHA...Wh...?"

[as doctor was fleeing the room]

The nurse came back in with the scalpel and giant needle to numb the area around the HSM. She whisked it off. I bleated out a few more pathetic HAHAs, and finally she took pity on me, saying it looked to her like a skin tag. A skin tag? Gross-sounding, yes, but far better than the deadly alternatives I'd been imagining.

I wasn't going to rest easy until I heard the results, though, which I was told would come in one of two ways. If the biopsy was normal, I'd get an email. If it was cancer, I'd get a phone call. So I did what any irrational hypochondriac would do: I turned the ringer off my phone for a week.

And I got an email. The mole was benign. Did I learn a lesson? Next time, will I confront a suspicious mole, persistent cough, or sporadically bleeding scalp head on? I likely will not. That's just not how I'm wired. But I'm working on it, honest. Every non-death sentence at a doctor's office inches me closer to the place where I know I need to be: facing my medical fears without delay. At least, without too much delay.

Normal Person vs. Hypochondriac: "The Neckache"

First, let me apologize for the quality of the drawings. Clearly, I am not an artist. Now that we've established that, here's a delightful little slice of my life as a hypochondriac with MS. In case it's not entirely clear from the drawings below, a Normal Person is featured on the left. Hypochondriac resides on the right. I call this one "The Neckache." Enjoy! (If you click on the pictures, you can see them in all their fantastic detail.)