rant: a case of the worry warts

A cold, possibly influenza, is unfurling its limbs in my chest and head. I can feel it rolling in like a contagious mist. I don’t have any symptoms yet, but someone close to me does. I haven’t seen them for six months and they live interstate, but they told me about it on the phone last night through their blocked nose and now I’m starting to feel it. Tired, achy, sniffly. Such is the power of modern telecommunications – or just my anxious mind.

While my siblings got my mum’s blonde hair, I got her medical anxiety. I can guarantee that from March to September, I will be reminded about the flu vaccine bi-weekly by my mother, even if I’ve already had it. The last few years she’s been telling me to get the shingles vaccine. It’s recommended for adults over 65, but “never too young to start”, she tells me. Now whenever I go to the chemist and see the poster promoting the shingles vaccine, my skin starts to tingle. Maybe she was right; I should get vaccinated. Just in case.

From September onwards, she shifts gears and starts her incantation about how I always get sick around my birthday. I swear she wills it upon me with her witchy powers. A few weeks of being told how sick that time of year makes me and, without fail, my lungs give out and I’m a phlegmy puddle of bronchitis. Classical conditioning in action. “For she’s a jolly good fellow, and so say – cough – all of us.”

It’s not just my mother who has this power over me. If anyone mentions they’re feeling sniffly in my presence, by sunrise the following day I’ll feel it too. You have an extra toe? Fascinating. Wait, has that nub protruding from the side of my foot always been there? To be fair, my family is as riddled with disease and ill health as a 19th century orphanage. Both my parents had brain tumours. Some higher power wanted our genes wiped out.

Towards the end of last year, I had reached a state of peace about the impending amputation of my left foot. I knew there’d be a period of mental and physical adjustment, but I was OK with it. I’d researched prosthetics and knew that not only would I be able to run again but I’d probably run faster than I could on my old bony ankle. I was thinking carbon – light and fast. Life would go on. It took a while to reach this point, though. Before this, there were nights of panicked online searches, hypotheticals and stress.

Of course, my fractured foot and torn ligaments didn’t actually require amputation, not even surgery in the end. But in a very unlucky world that most doctors couldn’t possibly imagine (showing a distinct lack of anxiety and creativity), it could have and that’s what mattered. I’m still not entirely convinced it won’t happen. I may take another wrong step, re-tear my now compromised ankle and be sent limping back to my folder of prosthetic research.

I know I’m anxious, obviously, but there’s also a side to this medical vigilance that stems from the way medical professionals respond to my concerns. I’ve gone to doctors with – at times – wild concerns, but I’ve also gone with very legitimate concerns and I’ve been given the same muted response each time. So, is it always anxiety or am I being dismissed for my vigilance?

Women often report having their medical conditions disregarded by doctors. The sweet trill of gender bias in health care. It took me months of various tests and different specialists to get someone to listen to me about a legitimate problem. Then another year or two of trialling different drugs that are not government-subsidised because they’re only for women, after all. I have friends with chronic pelvic pain and endometriosis who suffer terribly and to whom medical professionals recommend painkillers and a tall glass of deal with it. So when I feel like a doctor thinks I’m crazy, I push it out of my mind. Maybe my mum isn’t actually a witch, just a woman who’s endured many more years of this frustration and helplessness. She’s doing the hard work for me by getting ahead of every possible thing that could ail or kill me. (She’s also definitely a bit witchy.)

I just started sneezing. The cold is upon me. I may not be long for this world. I leave behind a rich legacy of medical scans and reports. I should donate my archive to a library for posterity and the education of future generations of anxious, disregarded minds. Think fondly of me when you gaze upon my X-rays.

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 126. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.