MY wife is a hypochondriac. in the worst possible way. like in a crazy wacko are you serious kinda way. She get gets it honestly though. her dad is cool. and while i would like to leave it at just that, cool. i cant. her dad is cool BUT, hes kinda crazy too.
i will never understand how one imagines a paper cut leading to an amputation of an entire limb. and dont think they wont bring up that one guy, you know the ONE who did actually die ONCE because he got an infection in his paper cut while in a foreign country and then got on a plane and by the time he landed it was too late to save him.
oh sorry, never heard that one... yeah, that because only crazy people know that kind of stuff. because they spend hours upon hours researching every possibly outcome of every symptom they can come up with. note that when i say symptom i am referring to things like breathing, blinking, chewing, moving, living. once youve contracted the hypochondriac disease just living is a symptom of death. slow painful terminal death.
"was it fatal? yes. how fatal? completely. "
at this point we have an understanding... you can freak out about yourself, but you cannot freak out about the children. also when freaking out about yourself you may convene with your father at his house until your matter is resolved in that you are either convinced that you will survive or you die from they anxiety you have about maybe dying from something you dont have then we will cremate your remains in order to eliminate any chances of the hypochondriac virus spreading to anyone else in the family before placing you in an urn above the piano. (thats how you become paranoid about fatal diseases by the way...its a nasty little virus that eats your brain matter and controls your thinking so that you die from anxiety. its not just a parasitic life form looking for sustenance in your body its an ill intentioned murderous evil genius virus with no desire for your body except for it to expire.)
she seems to be in control of herself for the most part but every once in a while i catch her sitting in the dark her first aid kit and and emergency contact numbers in hand perusing the mayo clinic pages.
one thing you should know. never, never, never,never encourage any persons inclination to believe they are dying. you think its funny to patronize them because they are not dying. but its not. its not funny. not even a little. not even the next day when they are still alive. when you say, "see you are still alive." thats not funny either. not funny. you are not funny for making light of the idea of someone you love maybe dying. cause what if they did. but they wont. but they could. and you are not funny. dont do it. not funny.dont even smile. when they say " i think im gonna die." hold back your laughter with everything youve got and look interested and nod. but dont speak, because words will not come out. just laughter. and its not funny. at all.
that being said i am about to go care for the woman i love. her mortal wound is beginning to spread infection to her body and i dont how much longer shes got. as these may be her final moments i should probably not be wasting them blogging.
in case your wondering, just to be sure, its the really huge gaping wound there in the left center of the foot there.
i hope she still likes me when she wakes up and finds i posted a picture of her foot while she was out on the couch. remember me in your prayers: )
the husband
Might I say, "You are not funny." Bwaaa.
ReplyDeleteMy Mom is the queen of hypochondriacs......she keeps seeking medical advice from me (since I am practically an MD, i.e., a medical transcriptionist :)). She picks the lastest disease she is convinced she has and asks, "Have you ever typed anything about........"
ReplyDeleteOn the contrary, I think (as I belly-laugh and snort) you're hilarious! Glad I'm not you this morning, though.
ReplyDelete*Dignified clearing of throat*
ReplyDeleteI would just like to point out, that when I cut my foot last night, I did not make a big deal about it. In fact, I didn't even tell Matt that I cut it. I went along my merry, laundry-doing way, dripping little drops of blood as I went. I cleaned and bandaged said injury, and went back to wipe up the droplets. Once he took notice of these happenings, he asked me if perhaps it was an errant piece of glass and asked if I wanted him to look at my foot.
I told him it appeared to be a cut and that no, he did not need to look at it. Upon which he asked if perhaps there might still be glass in it and I told him that no, I did not believe there was any glass in it and that just because it hurt, did not mean there was. I assumed it was hurting because sometimes cuts hurt.
And then I have a fuzzy recollection of him inspecting my foot whilst I slept on the couch. And no, I do not like the picture he took. Who takes good bottom-of-the-foot pictures, anyway? Other than babies, of course.
I would also like to point out that while I and my father may have hypochondriac tendencies, he and his mother have weather-chondria. Almost everytime there are any traces of new snow or ice on the road/driveway/front yard, one or both of them calls me to let me know to be extra careful when venturing out of the house. So there.
But yes, I still like you.
ReplyDeletep.s. update:
ReplyDeleteThere was indeed a miniscule piece of glass in my foot. Every time I stepped on my "cut" foot the wrong way today, I got some shooting, stabbing pains that, one would think, you would not get with just a cut. So once the kids were asleep, I investigated with an alcohol-cleansed pair of tweezers and, sure enough, a little shard of glass flipped out and hit me on the arm.
And what do you know--I'm still not feeling nervous about dying. Lucky it wasn't a rusty piece of metal, eh?