As I have been recuperating at home following surgery a good deal of my time has been spent either reading or searching the Internet. That’s good and that’s bad. It’s good in that my mind is clear enough now of all my pre and post surgery meds that I can think clearly. It’s bad that all I read about and research is my illness! Worry is my middle name. I’m serious. I think it’s on my birth certificate.

I do know that I have a strong propensity for always expecting the worse in any situation and I’m quite certain I am the best at it, at least around these parts. Ever since I was a little girl following in my dad’s footsteps as he doled out pills to the local infirmed and listened to the ailments of more than a few of the folk in our sleepy little town, I have been closely attuned to the health hazards of the human body, specifically mine.

My irrational fears concerning my health began early on. I recall attending a football game when I was in the sixth grade and all around me in the stands there were whispers. “Mickie has a brain tumor.” “Hey, did you hear about Mickie’s brain tumor?” and so on.

By the beginning of the second quarter of play not only was I hyperventilating, I had a severe headache of gargantuan proportions. I left the game in tears, went home and asked my parents why I had not been informed of my disease. As much in the dark as I, they made several phone calls before we discovered the source, and more importantly the object, of the grim news. Seems Faye Butler’s Siamese cat, Mickey, did indeed have a brain tumor and, though by morning I was doing considerably better than the cat, my life of hypochondria had begun. If I found a new freckle, it was melanoma. A pimple on the face was a tumor. If hiccups lasted longer than five minutes I could die. A long crease inside my hand meant a long life. A short one, my time was up tomorrow.

Now I hasten to say that all of us from time to time suffer from hypochondria. It’s part of our survival instinct. Gene Weingarten, in his book, The Hypochondriac’s Guide to Life and Death, says that from the time we are babies and cry when we are wet or hungry, we realize that complaint brings attention, and attention brings relief. Thus an important behavioral arc has been established.

The fact that I asked for a PDR [Physicians Desk Reference] for Christmas when I was ten should have been a tip-off to my parents that they had either a future doctor on their hands or a neurotic little girl who was due an immediate psychological intervention.

Unfortunately neither ever happened. I went on to great heights, however, in the imagined illness department and even became adept at splinting my own (slightly) broken fingers and curing my headaches with crushed ice and salt. If someone on TV had a disease, I got the symptoms. Hawaii Five-O gave me leprosy and Wagon Train gave me scurvy but luckily I failed to succumb to Fury’s articular ringbone. After an episode of Ben Casey though, I tried really hard to have prostate problems. (To no avail, I might add.) Dear Hearts, if any of you are hypochondriacs I apologize. I mean neither disrespect nor ridicule. Truth be known, we are a pretty smart lot. We are bottom-line people. We want to know what makes our bodies tick and we waste no time in finding it out. Granted, it’s a little nerve wracking when two or more maladies are on your mind at the same time but heck, we’re a tough bunch; we can handle it. Two weeks ago I was given absolutely wonderful news by a host of skilled and knowledgeable doctors. I have no cancer! I have been praising the Lord from sunup to sundown since that diagnosis. I’m thrilled. I’m thankful. But if I told you I hadn’t worried a little about all the “what ifs” I’d be lying. I’m daily confirming that God is Good and I’m latching on to my good news for dear life. I’m not about to let go. I’m gaining my strength slowly but surely and I have a few aches and pains now and then that give me pause but hey, I’m on my way to recovery! My back bothers me for some reason but with Ibuprofen and rest I can live with that for the time being. Funny thing is, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear the trouble was my prostate.

[Disclaimer: The above Dear Hearts was written under the influence of some mighty fine pharmaceuticals and parts of it may or may not represent the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.]