I told you I was ill

I knew actually leaving the house would yield results – one doctor’s appointment later (obviously not for me, as I have the iron constitution of a bull (made of iron)) and there’s a whole new subject to talk inanely about: hypochondria.

It is another one of those facets of life that I will rip on people incessantly about, yet am guilty of myself. From my girlfriend today, whose “definite brain cancer that will make my very soul explode” actually turned out to be a bit of a boo-boo on her knee, to my “definitely got cancer, going to die of it, tell my Mum ‘hello’” which turned out to be more a spot of me being a massive unhealthy twat, there are some fun stories to get out of this strange phenomenon. It’s made even more fun by the fact that it’s borne entirely out of our endless fear of mortality (well, not entirely, as insane media reporting and general idiocy play big parts too, but you get the point).

My example up there brought about three things: one, a general feeling of malaise in the period where I was waiting on test results and generally trying to get on with being a uni student; two, a doctor’s finger up my bum; and three, another doctor – who didn’t believe me when I told him about the last one/fancied me – violating me too. Safe to say, it wasn’t a high point in my life, and having an ultrasound in a room full of female student nurses was the icing on a particularly embarrassing (but tasty) cake. And why did I do it? I have no idea. The fact I was leading an unhealthy lifestyle, as I still am, never even occurred to me, as I simply convinced myself I was definitely going to die within the week.

Case two saw me convinced my kidneys were about to explode in a shower of pissy vinegar, covering my friends in their diseased goodness. On visiting the walk-in clinic (register with your local GP, kids), I was informed it was actually a chronic back strain, natch.

You want to feel relieved that you’re not dying; that you are actually going to live a long, fat life. But this relief is tempered by the fact that you feel like a massive plum for wasting the time of the medical professionals and for scaring yourself and your friends/loved ones so much. Isn’t it, ANNA?


Filed under Prattle

2 responses to “I told you I was ill

  1. Anna

    My prescription for delicious drugs begs to differ. And it’s my NECK, not KNEE, Dr Dransfield.

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