There are hypochondriacs, then there’s me. I live on a whole other plane of existence.
“Are you sure it’s a pulled muscle?” a slithery voice asks me, when I’m sure that the reason my shoulder is sore is because my wild boar of a dog yanked on his leash. “Are you sure it’s your gall bladder?” it asks, when I have a stomach ache, but I’ve already had a scan that shows significant gallstones, a surgical consult, and a scheduled date for surgery.
“But are you sure?”
Because it’s not enough to constantly worry about the aches and pains that come with being 50 and menopausal, I also have a big side order of anxiety deluxe.
Other people: My leg hurts. If it keeps up, I’ll go to the doctor and have it looked at.
Me: I have a blood clot, and I’m going to die.
Other people: Geez…
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