Hypochondria Mitochondria

The litmus test for a sick day in the Mevi-Madickman household was how late my mother happened to be running that day. If she was on time (read 5-15 minutes behind schedule) and I sauntered into her bathroom still clad in my over-sized Pillsbury Dough Boy sleep/school/overall favorite t-shirt (why any parent would dress their pudgy pre-pubescent daughter in a t-shirt depicting a character made of doughy carbohydrates begging to be poked in the fat of his stomach is beyond me, but I digress), whining of a sore throat, my mother would send me back to my room to dress for school (which really only required throwing on some jeans as that shirt was my uniform for the vast majority of my formative years).

If Melizabeth was truly running late (about 30-90 minutes behind schedule) and was rushing to get out the door, I was pretty much guaranteed a day in front of the TV. With no time to feel my head for fever, inspect my tonsils for inflammation, or check my neck for swollen glands Melizabeth was forced to indulge my hypochondria and grant me the coveted sick day. My mother's inability to properly plan and prepare for timely arrival to work, or really any sort of commitment or event, ensured that I got a "get out of school free" pass pretty much whenever I wanted.

Now, being the deluded child that I was, I actually believed I was sick whenever I made the frequent request to stay home due to illness. There are just so many diseases, conditions, bacterium and worms to contract; my young mind was sure I had all of them. Hook worm was of particular concern to me. It still is. Walking around barefoot, especially around a pool, is basically like an open door invitation to those parasitic little bastards. For the most part though, I kept it simple: stomach aches and throat aches, pink eye and sinusitis, Ebola and botulism.

The claim to have fallen ill with one of a myriad of deadly (or at least horribly disfiguring) diseases was accompanied by a manifestation of the symptoms. As this was before WebMD, I was forced to use my science book and my imagination to come up with these symptoms. Leprosy was accompanied by swollen toes. Bronchitis could be detected by a rash behind the knees. Indigestion was marked by an itchy throat and horse voice.

Because my parents were good Christian Scientists and supremely lazy (yet loving), my illnesses went undiagnosed by the medical establishment. Instead the cure for whatever ailed me lay in cheese doodles and a full day of "Hey Dude". Without fail this insured my full recovery and the next morning I headed off to school a healthy and happy girl. On the rare occasion that my parentals did think some sort of medical intervention was needed, my self diagnosis was almost always inexplicably "wrong". There was the time I, along with my childhood best friend Mhloe, insisted our hearing was in someway impaired. Our mothers took Mhloe and I to the local hospital where hearing tests were administered by a "medical professional". We were summarily told that it was not our hearing that was the problem. Apparently it was our listening skills that were impaired. Then there was the time I had asthma. Again my parents took me to a "doctor" to find the cause of my wheezing and shortness of breath. The "doctor" claimed that I was out of shape and chubby and perhaps this was the reason I had trouble breathing when playing rather vigorously. Fucking hack. This is why to this day I do not believe in modern medicine.

Along with my distrust of doctors my propensity for contracting rare and deadly illnesses has also stayed with me. In recent years my hypochondria has evolved to a real and ever present fear of meningitis. Yes, I have a vaccine and no, I do not live in a dorm or an otherwise communal space, but what people don't know is that meningitis is EVERYWHERE. Common signs of bacterial meningitis include but are not limited too a sore/aching neck (specifically the back of the neck), a rash around your ankles and death. I exhibit the first two symptoms about ninety percent of the time and the other ten percent I am just waiting to drop dead. Because I like to keep everyone around me aware of my pressing condition, I talk about my meningitis a lot. I complain about the pain in my neck, the inevitable and eventual amputation of limbs (a by product of the bacteria spreading throughout your body), and the long haul to death (while most people die within a week, I'm a fighter and have had it for years, always on the verge).

Most people cloak their sadness and concern in feigned annoyance. "Go to the doctor" friends will say. Or "Mephanie shut up you do not have meningitis, you would be dead by now." Oh, how they care. Of course I do have meningitis, and of course I will not be seeing any doctors for it. I will fight off this bacterial killer with soap and wits.

I mean sure, there have been a couple of times over the years when I was forced to seek the help of a trained professional. There was that time I broke my wrist in college while doing the running man and the time I broke my nose while actually running. Concerned friends forced me to go the emergency room and get a cast after the running man incident (its a damned dangerous dance). But I'm telling you, that cast looked like my 8th grade paper mache volcano. I could have made that for half the price, half the wait, and there would have been lava shooting out of my arm! Some people find it weird that someone so beset by disease should refuse medical treatment. I say what kills you slowly makes you stronger!