Remember when the coronavirus era had only just began? I do.
As a hypochondriac, I remember stocking up on antiseptic and pretending to be
Bradley Cooper from Limitless, chucking a brainwave amplification pill, but calculating
the direction of spit molecules in slow motion. This pandemic has been so
overwhelming for my anxiety, I almost forgot about all the other ways I was
afraid of dying. But just like everyone else, my mind is just about bored of
this situation and a bit more numb to the undeniable danger. This left space
for previous fears to reoccur, just so I never feel bored. Or, you know, calm.
I have been avoiding check-ups for obvious reasons (obvious
for me, that is) but it was about time that I get a blood test to make sure
that my incredible paleness is within the lower, yet acceptable, bounds of Fe
levels. I am not sure if this goes for all countries, but here in Greece you
are asked to eat nothing for 12 hours prior to the test and preferably be off
your period (the second one goes for half the population mostly). I chose to
follow the former instruction and forego the latter. The blood test was
interesting in itself, as in my anxiety actually stopped the blood mid flow. I
wasn’t even aware that was possible! The nurse looked perplexed; she had to
pierce a different vein and asked me to think of a beach, or puppies, or
whatever calms me down, anyway. I went for James Welsh’ latest video bashing
Gwyneth Paltrow; different things work on different people. Once the test was
over, I imagine I looked significantly paler than usual, because no one had suggested
I sit down for a while prior to the test, but they sure did after. I was guided
to a nearby couch and instructed to hang out there until walking was a
negligible challenge for my blood pressure. I fondly remember singing ‘My Shot’
from Hamilton in my head, if anything a bit faster than the original tempo, and
was pretty sure I wasn’t annoying anybody. I clearly remember going through the
first verse, but the next thing I remember is staring at the ceiling surrounded
by four torsos staring at me intensely. This confused me as I was expecting the
Mulligan’s verse about how the American rebellion was also motivated by caste
and socioeconomic status, and that verse never came. I eventually deducted that
that the doctor holding my legs up wasn’t inspecting the dirt on my shoes, but
I most likely fainted and fell off the couch. My first thought was, of course,
embarrassment. This was a public place I chose to faint in and my loss of
consciousness involved a number of people I inconvenienced. Is there a greater
horror than that for a socially anxious person? Once I got over that particular
anxiety, I remembered that as a proper hypochondriac, I should also panic about
having hit my head.
I apologised about 50 times for fainting and then proceeded
to ask the staff about 50 more whether I hit my head. I was assured that my
head was fine and that I fell in a polite and conservative manner from a small
height, which we all know is code for PERMANENT BRAIN DAMAGE. I drove home,
regardless, as nobody else was convinced that my consciousness was forever
compromised. Since then, each day has been a struggle not to Google my potential
head bump. I say potential, because the bump admittedly never formed. From
previous experience, Googling such events leads to anything from a concussion
to multiple personality disorder.
Problem is, I don’t need Google to come up with insane conditions
regarding head bumps; I have seen too many movies.
Amy Schumer’s ‘I Feel Pretty’ features the protagonist
bumping her head and suddenly seeing herself as much more beautiful than she
did before. I am not ready for such a confidence boost at the moment, and
cannot even imagine the disappointment of re-bumping my head and thinking I
look like that
failed Fresco restoration painting. In ‘What men/women want’ the lead
characters bump their heads and end up hearing all the thoughts of the opposite
sex. And that just sounds immensely boring after a couple of days. Sure, I
would find out a few interesting things that people wouldn’t say to my face,
but all in all I prefer getting the filtered, edited version of what people
around me are thinking. Remember, not all thoughts are interesting.
According to the movies, I might also get amnesia; and just
like in ‘Overboard’ someone might pretend to be my wife and steal my fortune.
They would have to convince me that I was a lesbian for this scenario and that
I have some fortune worth putting up with me for. I might be taken advantage
of, but I am definitely not getting the worst end of that deal. Amnesia could
make me feral like a wolverine and send me on a quest to figure out my
adamantium skeleton and my ageless looks. As a hypochondriac, this not a bad
option; Wolverine had self-healing powers and was therefore safe from loads of
my other worries. Nonetheless, I would still need to get in writing that my
origin story will not include a botched Deadpool and bad CGI.
The world may change once I regain my consciousness. I could
be risking a zombie apocalypse where I could be the least prepared person. I’ll
set up a reminder to pack a survival bag in case of future head bumpings. I
might be the only person left to remember the Beatles and simply rebrand their
songs as my own. That is good enough motivation to both practice the piano and
trip down the stairs, now that I think of it. On second thought, probably in
the opposite order as the piano might otherwise be a waste of time. I might be
a mild hypochondriac but I am sure as hell lazy. Seeing as Hamilton was the
last thing I remember before fainting, maybe I could claim the hit musical as
my own, rather than the Beatles musical anthology. How I would convince people
that I came up with two and a half hours of rap lyrics about one of the
founding fathers of the US, I am not yet sure; it is not very on brand.
Okay, some of my non-googled, imaginary scenarios were
indeed worrisome, but all in all more fun than cancer and paralysis. Therefore,
I am happy to conclude that WebMD is officially worse than a zombie apocalypse.
Maybe it is worth starting a forum for all anxious people to write down their
mountains out of molehills, so that we can all get together and write up the
next superhero origin story. Bring down Disney! Get Zack Snyder out of a job (I
am still slowly working my way through my Snyder frustration)! Oh my God! I
need to bump my head! The world depends on it!
(Is this post indication that I should have my head looked at after all?)
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