From Life to Death to Life Again--All in My Mind

When I was young I was quite the hypochondriac. This was aside from the night terrors that had my father running into my bedroom as I awoke screaming. That my dears is a whole OTHER story. For one chunk of my young life, I had a fear of choking, and became obsessed with my swallowing reflex. You can imagine how crazy making that was, for me, and for my parents. Then, after my dad had his first heart attack at 51, I was convinced I was having heart palpitations and would soon expire. My hypochondria faded in favor of a year long depression, which in the Bronx, was treated in passing by my pediatrician. He thought it was just the stress of being a late high school student. In time, distractions of college, law school and moving out of New York helped the hypochondria, at least, to fade. But my black and white, either/or, life or death zitgeist has been with me to date.

And this from someone who, as a lawyer has been forced to face daily ambiguity.

And now in this past midpoint of my life health returns to the fore, and bids my attention. I have been fortunate to make it to my late fifties with no actual hospital stay and only one minor (except it was neck related and with all those nerves and arteries that was a bit of a scare) surgery in one of those pricey suites. I have borne my other aches and pains as the corollary to upper middle age and a sedentary lifestyle, but mostly because they pass so quickly, and even as a kid I had aches and pains I ignored. Of course, now, there is much potential danger in such avoidant behavior not present when I was young, and moderately supple.

So, having put off from a kind of phobic position, that lately urged upon us colonoscopy, which I should have had at least seven years ago, some, well, let's call it symptomology overcame my phobia and sent me running to a GI guy. (Not the military GI, but the doctor version, naturally). I was however sincerely convinced that doom of a natural kind was just a roto rooter experience away, and I was ending all my sentences about the future with "if I live." I asked for prayers of my prayerful friends. Out like a light, in another pricey suite, and an hour later, I was in fact alive, minus one pre-cancerous polyp in the transverse colon, and in its place an internal tattoo for the next go round. The world could have fallen around me for a week or more, and usually a pessimist personified, was gleefully saying, "I'm alive! I'm alive!"

And then. . .

On Thursday last week, I shared a most lovely dinner engagement with Len Speaks and our mutual birthday celebrating friend at Il Cielo, a 26 year standing Beverly Hills must go dining experience. I drank too much. I ate too much, a huge prawn, or was it two, in the shell. At 3 a.m. I could not decide what it was, but it was stomach churning indeed. I assumed that it was proper punishment for a pleasant but gluttonous evening. I promised I would not do it again, knowing that likely I would, as I had before, on occasions that flashed back in my mind. I knew I was in for a couple of days of discomfort for which only I was to blame, but I was ok.

And then. . .

Another symptom, one that I had been told is a sign of internal bleeding after a colonoscopy. I was convinced something had ruptured because of my bad food and drink consumption. It was only a month since the procedure. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Doom and gloom returned, and I was back to thinking about my post-earthly niche here and worrying about the one, well, the one I'd like to be resident of, in whatever supernatural haven. Not yet, Lord. Not yet. I know it's my own fault, but not yet. When I told the doctor my symptom right before the weekend, his "come right in" was both comforting (because it was nice he'd take me on no notice) and terrifying (because the symptom was one he doesn't mess with). Blood tests. A home test (you can guess) and a "come in on Monday first thing with the package and we'll know." And if it got worse he said, "go to the hospital". He was going out of town for the weekend for Father's Day, but his stand by would be on call. Oh, goodie.

I did not get worse. I slowly got better. I slowly felt better.

And then. . .

This morning, I brought in my painstakingly collected samples and he peered at them and said pronounced that it was normal and not what I had dreaded. What it apparently was, was something I ate. According to the net, a toxic shell fish can cause the very symptom. The doctor did not even charge me my co-pay. I was ALIVE again! At this stage of the game, who has time for hypochondria?