The medical possibilities? They can worry you sick
Staying healthy is making me sick. I blame it on too much information.
In the days before the Internet, if I had a headache, rash or sore throat, I might get annoyed, depressed or impatient with the speed of my recovery. Rarely, though, did I have even a moment of panic. Now that I’m just a point and click away from hundreds of websites devoted to analyzing symptoms, it’s become all too easy to conjure up worst-case scenarios.
Being a reasonable person, I try to remain calm. I do my best to separate useful information from information that has me reaching for the Xanax. I try to get my mind off the possibility that my headache might not be due to excess sugar and caffeine, but to a brain tumor.
I turn on the television. Bad idea. A local news anchor is reporting on a new warning from a medical research group. Yet another chemical found in processed foods has been targeted as a possible cause of cancer in mice. Mice, men, what’s the difference? The fear is now lodged in my brain, making that headache of mine even worse.
Is it my imagination or am I also getting a little dizzy? I keep switching channels until I find a sitcom. Safe territory until a commercial for an allergy medication comes on. I don’t have allergies, so I watch with only the slightest interest until the last 10 seconds of the ad, when the list of possible side effects grabs my attention. The litany of things one can suffer after taking this medication sounds biblical, like symptoms of the plague.
It doesn’t matter that I will probably never take this particular medicine. I’ve just been reminded of the numerous ways the body can malfunction. At that moment I promise myself I will stay away from Oreos and caffeine and immediately make an appointment to see a doctor for a general checkup.
When I wake the next day, my headache is gone but now something seems to be clogging my lungs, making it hard to take a deep breath. I’m consumed with massive anxiety, which I would have even without an obstruction in my chest. Any day that includes a doctor’s appointment is a day I’m guaranteed to be a wreck.
I wasn’t always this way. During the last few years, our culture has gone crazy with malpractice suits. Now a lot of doctors protect their interests by recommending a whole spectrum of tests. It’s gotten to the point where all roads lead to testing for lupus.
As I sit in the doctor’s waiting room, I imagine more blood samples and referrals to specialists. I imagine spending the next couple of days or weeks (or however long it takes to get the results) feeling like I’m on death row. Will the phone ring with a pardon from a judge or are my hours numbered? Dramatic, I know, but, unfortunately, not an exaggeration.
Even if everything checks out, medical science has now advanced to the point where you can pretty much be tested not only for what you have, but also for what you might get. Body scans can reveal your medical future. No, thank you. It’s one thing to know you’re doomed, another to make doom your roommate.
I can’t dispute the merits of staying informed. Obviously the earlier you discover that something’s gone wrong, the easier it is to cure. But does playing it safe mean living in terror?
Most doctors suggest annual maintenance, which for me could turn into a full-time job. It takes a month for me to work up the courage to have one test done and a month to recover from that trauma. And because maintaining good health means having a number of things checked out each year, it all adds up to a big chunk of the calendar spent on the verge of hysteria.
Perhaps this makes me seem too neurotic to be taken seriously. But consider for a moment all those facts and figures we’re bombarded with. We’re constantly being told what percentage of the population will succumb to the three biggies: heart disease, cancer and stroke. Most of us know that the percentage risk climbs as we reach our 40s, 50s, 60s and beyond.
We’ve all heard the numbers, the data and the odds for those diseases and a long list of others. With those stats ever present, who doesn’t walk around with a little fear?
So there I am, sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, which only makes everything worse because without any distractions, I have more time to worry. That brings me to another complaint: National Geographic and Parents magazines are not good choices for a waiting room. Though normally more of a New Yorker magazine kind of person, in this situation I need something frivolous, something to take my mind off the fact that I just filled out a form requiring me to provide an “in case of emergency” number.
And those so-called women’s magazines aren’t the answer. Ladies Home Journal, Cosmo, Glamour, they all have articles about medical issues. I don’t want to be reminded of just how easy it is to get an STD or why certain FDA-approved drugs might be pulled from the market: because they could kill you.
Give me the tabloids. Give me Britney eating an ice cream cone amid rumors that she’s pregnant. Give me fashion police.
But alas, even with distractions the moment of reckoning arrives and I’m called into the examining room. After I’ve described my breathing problems to the doctor, he does a routine exam and asks a few more questions. He sure looks grave. I’m thinking immediate X-rays and same-day admission to Cedars-Sinai.
He smiles, writes something in my file, snaps it shut.
“It’s not your lungs,” he says. “It’s your stomach. You’ve got reflux, a condition caused by too much stomach acid. Half of Hollywood has it.”
“How did I get it?” I ask.
“Well, often stress brings it on. You need to relax more.”
I don’t bother telling him that Hollywood has nothing to do with my stress, unless we’re talking about what happens to my anxiety level when I tune into prime-time medical dramas. I also don’t ask the name of the medication he prescribes, just in case it’s one of the drugs I’ve seen advertised on TV. I may already know all the horrifying potential side effects.
Instead, I decide to take a stab at relaxation. So without reading up on my new prescription, I pop a pill in my mouth, vow to drink plenty of water -- just because everyone says it’s good for you, and it’s one of the few things in life with no downside -- and, most importantly, I decide to boycott all medical websites. Well, at least until I can once again take a deep breath.
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Carol Wolper is a Los Angeles novelist and the author of “Mr. Famous” and “Cigarette Girl.”
