I don’t get ill. Ever. Seriously, never ever. But that’s not to say I don’t suffer from the odd dose of hypochondria (I’m not even sure if I’ve spelt that right).
At the faintest glimmer of something not quite right, I extrapolate to the nth degree to the point where I am on my last legs, soldiering on as best I can. It’s best to be prepared in case the worst does happen.
I’ve had a bad hand for over three months now, on and off. It’s very cunning. Just at the point when I think I really ought to go to the doctor’s, it stops hurting for a week or two. Then it’s back again – you get the picture.
This week it’s back with a vengeance and I know this time I really MUST go to the doctor’s because it’s much worse than it’s been before.
My husband says ‘I bet it’s RSI’, which would be a fair conclusion to draw considering how much time I spend typing. But actually the sort of pain I’m suffering doesn’t really sound like the sort of pain described on Wikipedia (that renowned source of medical information), so I don’t think he’s right.
‘You think it’s much worse,’ he says. ‘You think you’re going to end up an amputee.’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say, in a way which I hope is convincing. ‘I don’t even know anything bad you can get in your hand.’
HOW DOES HE KNOW?! How does he know that in my head I am already suffering fro HAND CANCER (if such a thing actually exists) and have had my whole arm amputated?!