Just Don't Think About It

You know, when your doctor tells you that he's almost certain that you don't have X Particular Bad Diagnosis, and not to worry about it, it becomes exceedingly hard not to worry about it. Because he wouldn't say he was almost certain you don't have it unless he's *not* entirely certain that you don't.

And being told not to worry about something like that is worrying. And it means you start thinking about it, and wondering about it, and before long even though you know intellectually that the odds of having to deal with this particular problem are virtually nil, it gives your ever-present worry machine something to chew on. And before the end of the day, nothing that goes on inside your body is innocent or coincidental anymore, and every hiccup and itch and muscle twinge becomes a road sign on the Highway to the Diagnosis of Doom.

I know, deep in my heart of hearts, that I'm fine. I know that there's nothing serious wrong with me, and that I'm being a hysterical hypochondriac. At the same time, though, while being diagnosed with Badness Syndrome X would suck, there's a tiny, tiny part of me that almost hopes it does happen, just because it would feel so good to have a name to put on what's happening, and to have external confirmation that something *is* wrong, and that I'm not just being whiny and wimpy.

Unfortunately, the only thing I can do right now is wait and see if certain signs go away. Apparently, it's too soon to do any tests, so I've been given instructions to hang on, take it easy, and not worry. I would have preferred an easier assignment, like bailing out the ocean with a soup spoon, but such is not to be.

Not worry. Okey-dokey.

La, la, la, I'm not thinking about it. I'll think about purple elephants and happy flowers and pretty dresses and feather boas instead.

That should buy me at least a few minutes. Just a few more weeks to go.....