minor catastrophes

 I can be a bit of a hypochondriac. Not like one of those people who’s ailing every day, but one who’s preoccupied with her own certain, looming-just-around-the-corner diagnosis of an awful, drawn out fatal disease which will surely involve leaving the earth looking ugly. There. I said it. I don’t want to die ugly. I’m a vain hypochondriac.

For years I was convinced that breast cancer wasn’t an if, but a when for me. My paternal grandmother died of breast cancer in her 50s. My maternal grandmother died of it in her 60s. I considered spending lots of money to find out if I carry the breast cancer gene — because people like me can really benefit from knowing that they don’t currently have breast cancer, but they have the gene, which just means if they live long enough they’ll get it. Such testing allows us plenty of time to pick out our wig and make it clear that we don’t want anyone to put that awful pancake makeup on our faces for the viewing.

But then one day my little voice said, “Girlfriend, you've got A-cups on a fluffy day with poor lighting. You are so gonna notice if you sprout a lump.” It’ll be like that puberty I kept waiting for.

So I get mammograms and do self-exams and so far, no lumps. Plus, I have a non-blood-related grandma and an aunt in my family who’ve had breast cancer and kicked it’s wonky-celled butt. So there.

But then I moved on to my hearing. I don’t hear well, so I saw a specialist and had tests to determine if I was going deaf or if there was some flesh-eating virus in my brain. Turns out I’m just deaf enough to warrant a hearing aid, but I’m not ready for that, so I just say WHAT?! a lot.

The hearing tests revealed a positive ANA titer, which means I’m autoimmune. When I asked the doctor what that means he said, “It might mean that your own body attacked your hearing. Or maybe not. We don’t know.”

 Splendid.

I didn’t know much about autoimmune disorders, so I did some Googling and bought a book on it for cozy bedtime reading. Autoimmune disorders include nightmares like multiple sclerosis, lupus, Guillan-Barre syndrome and many more. There are also many symptoms that go along with autoimmunity such as dry skin (Yes), allergies (Yes), poor circulation in hands and feet (Yes. Hello nasty, yellow old-person-looking toenails and feet. I know you’re in my future.) and alopecia.

Wait, what’s that? Alopecia? Alopecia is LOSING YOUR HAIR. Dear God! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve checked my scalp for patchiness after reading that? Or how many women I’ve studied in the checkout line to see which sorry specimens are also probably losing their hair? Then I worried that all that worrying was going to make me lose my hair BECAUSE I’M SUCH A COMPLETE LOSER, as autoimmune responses are often triggered by stress. Deaf and bald at 41, with who knows what else waiting to ruin my life?
 
Because I have a bit of self-awareness, I keep my neuroses mostly to myself. I do tell Shawn about them though, and over the years he’s patiently weathered several near deaths and many potential threats to my looks. Still, this self-awareness wasn’t enough to keep me from beefing up my medical savings account this year for the inevitable. And it wasn’t enough to keep me from writing to a nurse-friend who writes a health column for one of the publications I manage at work.

I asked her about being autoimmune, and whether or not I should go see a naturopath or a rheumatologist to find out what’s wrong with me, even though nothing is really wrong (right now). She kindly took the time to write me a long, thoughtful email that could have been boiled down to this:

Dear Megan,
Settle the heck down. You’re healthy and nothing is wrong with you. No need for doctors or testing when: NOTHING IS WRONG. Enjoy your good health.
Warmly,
R

Getting her letter was like when a two-year-old has a tantrum and suddenly pauses to take a deep breath. It was pure relief. I was like, Oh, I’m healthy. I guess I can just chill out and enjoy it. No need for tests.

Why didn’t I think of that?