Humorous illustration of health anxiety: A chicken with a band-aid and crutches, embodying the feeling of overreacting to minor symptoms, related to the blog post 'Doctor Doctor Gimme the News'.
Despite projecting an image of calm collectedness in my writing – and let’s be honest, who doesn’t try to appear more together than they actually are? – the truth is, I’m wired to worry. It’s a lifelong project, this managing of anxieties. My semi-justification for this inherent worry-wart nature is my marriage to a man who embodies the definition of laid-back. Someone has to hold the worry reins in this household, right? I see my worrying as a necessary, albeit slightly neurotic, ingredient to family life; a little bit of unease prevents things from becoming too smooth, too predictable, too… well, boringly well-adjusted. Wouldn’t you agree?
One particular area where my worry tendencies flare up is health. Thankfully, in general, I enjoy robust health, which minimizes the need for constant fretting. However, the moment the slightest symptom emerges, my mind doesn’t just jump to conclusions, it pole-vaults directly to the most catastrophic diagnosis imaginable. A simple tension headache? In my internal drama, it’s practically a brain tumor announcement.
This is where my approach diverges from the norm. Most people, when convinced they’re nearing death’s door, would be practically camping out in their doctor’s waiting room. They’d be on speed dial with the after-hours nurse, demanding every test under the sun, and seeking specialist opinions like they’re collectible stamps.
Not me. While I might internally spiral about my health, my primary fear is becoming that patient – the one who annoys their doctor. My deepest dread is presenting a symptom, undergoing a battery of tests, only for everything to return normal, culminating in the doctor silently branding me a neurotic hypochondriac. I’m half-convinced that doctor’s offices have a secret stash of “Freak-Out Case” stickers, reserved for patients who dare to present with unsubstantiated symptoms. When a “Freak-Out Case” patient calls, I imagine the on-call nurse stifling a sigh, while the rest of the staff share knowing glances and suppressed giggles in the break room. (Doctors out there, spill the tea – is this actually a thing?)
The desire to avoid that dreaded “Freak-Out Case” label on my medical chart is powerful. So, I engage in elaborate avoidance tactics. I delay scheduling appointments, engage in endless internal debates about whether I should even bother the doctor, and inevitably, dive into the murky depths of online self-diagnosis (I know, I know – doctor Google is not a real doctor!). This process, unsurprisingly, only intensifies my conviction that my days are numbered. But hey, at least when the end comes, my doctor won’t secretly resent me.
Perhaps “blocked hypochondriac” is the most fitting label for my particular brand of health anxiety. If my inner anxieties were to take human form, they’d probably resemble Woody Allen in a particularly introspective mood.
One of the unexpected silver linings of pregnancy is that it grants you a temporary “Freak-Out Case” pass. Suddenly, expressing health concerns isn’t neurotic, it’s responsible. After all, you’re now responsible for the well-being of another life growing inside you. During pregnancy, the fear of seeming overly anxious or self-absorbed when contacting the doctor diminishes significantly. It’s no longer “just me” – it’s about the baby. And considering Fiona’s dramatic entry into the world firmly placed me in the “high-risk pregnancy” category for all subsequent pregnancies, I figure I’ve earned a few extra “worry points” to cash in.
And trust me, those worry points feel necessary. If you’re thinking, “By the fourth pregnancy, it must be a breeze. You’ve done this three times before! Surely, the worry fades away,” prepare to have that assumption shattered.
A somewhat cruel and counterintuitive reality about pregnancy – at least my pregnancies – is that they don’t get easier with repetition. In my personal experience, each pregnancy seems to incrementally increase in difficulty: more aches, more pains, more nausea. Whether this is due to the increasing demands of caring for more children and having less time to rest, or simply the cumulative effect of age on my body, I’m not entirely sure. Overall, I wouldn’t classify my pregnancies as particularly arduous, but they definitely don’t become a walk in the park with practice.
This brings us back to the worry. Strangely, my least anxious pregnancy was likely my first. Back then, blissful ignorance was my shield. I was unaware of the sheer volume of things that could potentially go wrong. Then, I made the fateful decision to read “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” a book that should probably come with a warning label for inducing panic in expectant mothers. My edition includes an entire chapter ominously titled, “When There’s A Problem.” (I now actively advise first-time mothers to steer clear of this book. Is it truly beneficial to fill your mind with a catalog of worst-case scenarios? If I ever were to write a pregnancy handbook, it would be concise: “You’re probably going to be okay. Women have been doing this for centuries without the marvels of modern medicine or “What to Expect.” Eat reasonably well, rest when possible, see your doctor, and delegate as much as humanly possible to your partner.”)
Unfortunately, it’s not just pregnancy literature that has populated my mind with potential catastrophes; it’s also just…life. In the five years between my first and fourth pregnancies, countless friends have navigated their own pregnancies and journeys into parenthood. The vast majority of these stories are joyful, but some are marked by profound sadness and loss. I’ve witnessed unimaginable heartbreak from the sidelines.
Now, my internal worry arsenal is fully stocked with a comprehensive inventory of potential pregnancy pitfalls. Compounding this is the perplexing fact that while my pregnancies don’t get easier, they do become increasingly different. No two have been carbon copies; there’s always a new, unexpected symptom or sensation to decipher. “What is that ache?! I’ve never felt that before! Let me frantically consult ‘What to Expect’….”
The ultimate takeaway from all this health-related and pregnancy-induced worrying? It has forced me to grapple with the crucial distinction between RESPONSIBILITY and CONTROL. Consider this:
I am RESPONSIBLE for taking care of myself during pregnancy – adhering to prenatal vitamins, prioritizing rest and exercise, and abstaining from alcohol for nine months (a definite sacrifice!) – but I cannot CONTROL the ultimate outcome of the pregnancy.
I am RESPONSIBLE for my actions – striving to treat others with kindness, actively managing my anxiety, and making an effort not to unduly burden my healthcare providers – but I cannot CONTROL how others perceive me.
These are profound lessons, and remarkably effective preparation for the rollercoaster of parenting. Because I am undeniably RESPONSIBLE for my children – ensuring they are fed, clothed, taught basic manners, and kept (reasonably) safe from harm – but I will never, ever possess the illusion of controlling them.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, this relinquishing of control, but it’s the fundamental truth of both health and parenthood.
