The day my mom found out, aka a waltz through hypochondria-land
[Warning: This may get a little more personal than you want. But people like reading about other people, otherwise this whole blogging phenomenon wouldn't exist.]
This afternoon, I had hematuria.
Being the good little former med student that I am, and an incredible hypochondriac, I decided to research it on the internet. Now, I knew what the cause of it was - probably one of those icky urinary tract infections. My former skank of a roommate in college once contracted a UTI after she had had lots of sex with her then-boyfriend (which, of course, we all got to hear about in gory detail. Poor guy. He must have known he was dating one of the biggest blabbermouths in the world. We all knew what was going on in their sex life, down to the last cock ring.) After this past weekend with crankypants... well, yes. Very possible. But still. It was such a... boring disease. So easily resolvable. So I kept reading.
No, it was definitely not a UTI, I decided. No sirree. Nothing so pedestrian for me. I settled on the diagnoses of either leukemia or bladder cancer or something particularly horrible sounding called interstitial cystitis, and set about to further research. After discovering that other symptoms of leukemia are such things as easy bruising (check!) and fatigue (check!), well, there we go. It was decided.
By now, I had worked myself up into quite a nice panic. See, I knew I've had leukemia all along, and nobody listens to me. Nor do they listen to me when I tell them I have a tapeworm, which I do. But mention possible diabetes, and my mother freaks right out. Harumph. So, I called my mother at the hospital. I love calling my mother at the hospital. They never know where she is, so you get to hear the nurse yelling, "Where is Dr. XXX? Do you know where she is? Her daughter is on the phone. Maybe she's on break, check the break room." Then they put you on hold without telling you, which is actually preferable to being transferred to every floor in the hospital as they attempt to figure out where she is. I appreciate the fact that they're super-busy, but I don't think they should be losing track of their doctors like that.
My mom: Hello?
Me: Mommy, I think I have leukemia.
[long pause]
Me, now a little irritated: Hello? Are you there?
My sainted, poor mother, who had the misfortune to spawn a pain-in-the-ass like me: Yes. What's wrong?
Me, feeling very sorry for myself: I have hematuria.
My mom: Okay.
Me, definitely irritated, isn't she worried about me?: So? I think I'm dying.
My mom, who has definitely heard this complaint before, and I am still alive: I'm coming home soon.
Me, even more peeved that she doesn't seem to care: Don't you want to get me medicine?
My mom, who knows that I know that we have every antibiotic in our personal pharmacy, the fridge: I'll ask you more questions when I get home.
Since it took her about 40 minutes to get home, I had that much more time to further research my diseases. Oh, not on puny websites like Yahoo! health or WebMD, which are quite fine websites - for amateurs. Oh no. I still have access to med school resources, and I pulled out the big guns, accessing the online texts at sites where you have to be enrolled in a medical school or otherwise part of the medical profession to have a password.
Too much knowledge, sometimes, is really a bad thing.
So when my mom came home, the first thing I said was: "I don't have any other symptoms. I think I have bladder cancer." She gave me a long-suffering look, and went through the boring diagnostic questions I knew she was going to ask. ("Does it hurt when you pee?" "How long has this been going on for?" blah blah blah.) and some ones I didn't expect ("Do you have any swelling?" She pulled up my leg to examine it. "You're too tan, you should stop tanning, your skin will lose its elasticity." That's right, a lecture on the perils of the sun while I'm convinced I'm dying of something horrible)
But then she pulled out the big one.
"Have you had sex recently?"
Now, we're a very private family. We don't EVER talk about those sorts of things. (Not like the aforementioned roommate, who discussed every sexual detail of her life with her mother, and her mother reciprocated. And because roommate is the biggest blabberer in the world, I got to hear all the lovely details too. Like how her mother wrapped herself naked in tin foil for Valentine's day - our sophomore year in college, ie, not when they were first dating but recently. I didn't want to be knowing that kind of stuff.) And sure, my mother has certainly guessed by now - after all, I've been dating crankypants for some 18 months now, and she found my birth control (my excuse: It makes my periods regular!), and I spent every weekend, and then some, of the last two summers at his apartment, but we never talked about it. Ever. Hell, I got the birds and the bees lecture from my all-girls school in the 7th grade. I learned about my period in 4th (The video was called I Got It! and the only scene that sticks in my mind is when the mother, using pancake batter, draws (pours?) the female reproductive parts. Then the father comes home and they have pancakes for breakfast. I was always distressed by this). None of that sort of stuff was discussed by my parents.
I hadn't even told her that crankypants had been in town. (No, she did not question my 4-day disappearance. I do it often. As long as they know when I'm coming back, it's fine.) But I couldn't lie, not when it comes to my health. Or lack thereof. So I had to tell her the truth.
"Yes."
Somehow, she didn't seem very surprised by this, even though it was the first time I had ever openly admitted to it. It's surprising how cool she is regarding this. Or rather, maybe she's in denial and pretending that she didn't really hear my answer. Still, it was way too much for me. At least there wasn't a lecture on safe sex and the like. That, I definitely could not have handled. Rather, she later gave me all the necessary paperwork to go to the lab at the hospital to get urine cultures, and CBC counts, and all sorts of fun stuff.
But, because I am a miracle-child, and am blessed with all sorts of good healthy genes, the problem miraculously resolved itself later in the evening. Maybe something got burst. Who knows. It's a mystery.
But now my mother knows for sure that I'm having sex. And I don't know if I'm okay with that.
This afternoon, I had hematuria.
Being the good little former med student that I am, and an incredible hypochondriac, I decided to research it on the internet. Now, I knew what the cause of it was - probably one of those icky urinary tract infections. My former skank of a roommate in college once contracted a UTI after she had had lots of sex with her then-boyfriend (which, of course, we all got to hear about in gory detail. Poor guy. He must have known he was dating one of the biggest blabbermouths in the world. We all knew what was going on in their sex life, down to the last cock ring.) After this past weekend with crankypants... well, yes. Very possible. But still. It was such a... boring disease. So easily resolvable. So I kept reading.
No, it was definitely not a UTI, I decided. No sirree. Nothing so pedestrian for me. I settled on the diagnoses of either leukemia or bladder cancer or something particularly horrible sounding called interstitial cystitis, and set about to further research. After discovering that other symptoms of leukemia are such things as easy bruising (check!) and fatigue (check!), well, there we go. It was decided.
By now, I had worked myself up into quite a nice panic. See, I knew I've had leukemia all along, and nobody listens to me. Nor do they listen to me when I tell them I have a tapeworm, which I do. But mention possible diabetes, and my mother freaks right out. Harumph. So, I called my mother at the hospital. I love calling my mother at the hospital. They never know where she is, so you get to hear the nurse yelling, "Where is Dr. XXX? Do you know where she is? Her daughter is on the phone. Maybe she's on break, check the break room." Then they put you on hold without telling you, which is actually preferable to being transferred to every floor in the hospital as they attempt to figure out where she is. I appreciate the fact that they're super-busy, but I don't think they should be losing track of their doctors like that.
My mom: Hello?
Me: Mommy, I think I have leukemia.
[long pause]
Me, now a little irritated: Hello? Are you there?
My sainted, poor mother, who had the misfortune to spawn a pain-in-the-ass like me: Yes. What's wrong?
Me, feeling very sorry for myself: I have hematuria.
My mom: Okay.
Me, definitely irritated, isn't she worried about me?: So? I think I'm dying.
My mom, who has definitely heard this complaint before, and I am still alive: I'm coming home soon.
Me, even more peeved that she doesn't seem to care: Don't you want to get me medicine?
My mom, who knows that I know that we have every antibiotic in our personal pharmacy, the fridge: I'll ask you more questions when I get home.
Since it took her about 40 minutes to get home, I had that much more time to further research my diseases. Oh, not on puny websites like Yahoo! health or WebMD, which are quite fine websites - for amateurs. Oh no. I still have access to med school resources, and I pulled out the big guns, accessing the online texts at sites where you have to be enrolled in a medical school or otherwise part of the medical profession to have a password.
Too much knowledge, sometimes, is really a bad thing.
So when my mom came home, the first thing I said was: "I don't have any other symptoms. I think I have bladder cancer." She gave me a long-suffering look, and went through the boring diagnostic questions I knew she was going to ask. ("Does it hurt when you pee?" "How long has this been going on for?" blah blah blah.) and some ones I didn't expect ("Do you have any swelling?" She pulled up my leg to examine it. "You're too tan, you should stop tanning, your skin will lose its elasticity." That's right, a lecture on the perils of the sun while I'm convinced I'm dying of something horrible)
But then she pulled out the big one.
"Have you had sex recently?"
Now, we're a very private family. We don't EVER talk about those sorts of things. (Not like the aforementioned roommate, who discussed every sexual detail of her life with her mother, and her mother reciprocated. And because roommate is the biggest blabberer in the world, I got to hear all the lovely details too. Like how her mother wrapped herself naked in tin foil for Valentine's day - our sophomore year in college, ie, not when they were first dating but recently. I didn't want to be knowing that kind of stuff.) And sure, my mother has certainly guessed by now - after all, I've been dating crankypants for some 18 months now, and she found my birth control (my excuse: It makes my periods regular!), and I spent every weekend, and then some, of the last two summers at his apartment, but we never talked about it. Ever. Hell, I got the birds and the bees lecture from my all-girls school in the 7th grade. I learned about my period in 4th (The video was called I Got It! and the only scene that sticks in my mind is when the mother, using pancake batter, draws (pours?) the female reproductive parts. Then the father comes home and they have pancakes for breakfast. I was always distressed by this). None of that sort of stuff was discussed by my parents.
I hadn't even told her that crankypants had been in town. (No, she did not question my 4-day disappearance. I do it often. As long as they know when I'm coming back, it's fine.) But I couldn't lie, not when it comes to my health. Or lack thereof. So I had to tell her the truth.
"Yes."
Somehow, she didn't seem very surprised by this, even though it was the first time I had ever openly admitted to it. It's surprising how cool she is regarding this. Or rather, maybe she's in denial and pretending that she didn't really hear my answer. Still, it was way too much for me. At least there wasn't a lecture on safe sex and the like. That, I definitely could not have handled. Rather, she later gave me all the necessary paperwork to go to the lab at the hospital to get urine cultures, and CBC counts, and all sorts of fun stuff.
But, because I am a miracle-child, and am blessed with all sorts of good healthy genes, the problem miraculously resolved itself later in the evening. Maybe something got burst. Who knows. It's a mystery.
But now my mother knows for sure that I'm having sex. And I don't know if I'm okay with that.
posted at 09:24
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