Gray's Annatomy: Also, I'm Dying

I don't mean to brag or anything, but I was born to not be a doctor.  It's almost like God specifically crafted me to be the perfect non-physician.  And it's not just that I'm a squeamish hypochondriac who giggles whenever she hears the word "sphincter," I'm also kind of an insensitive jerk.

A few years back, I accidentally stepped on my sister's toe AND BROKE IT.  "It hurts so bad," she whimpered quietly, hobbling to the freezer to get some frozen peas.  "Are you calling me fat?" I replied.

The moment I truly realized that I had no bedside manner, however, was during my freshman year of college.  It was the dead of night, and my darling roommate, Carrie, was having some kind of violent cough attack.  I didn't wake up--so to be honest, I don't actually remember this happening--but apparently I thrashed about beneath my blankets and bellowed, "SHUT THE F*** UP!"  Two minutes later, I actually woke up.  "Are you okay, Carrie?" I asked, my voice full of concern.  "Can I get you anything?"  She looked at me with fear in her eyes.  "I don't trust you at all," she replied.

I don't remember much about the rest of that night, because I, being the sweet, loving person that I am, went immediately back to sleep.  This was rather particularly horrible of me, because Carrie ended up being taken to the hospital that night.  I must have opened my eyes briefly during the wee hours, because I remember noticing that she--and my blanket--were gone.  "That bitch took my blanket," I murmured dreamily, drifting back to undeserved sleep.

The good news is, Carrie was fine, she just had Swine Flu or something, and she, for whatever reason, actually still chooses to be my friend today.  But the point is, when confronted with other people's sicknesses, I am emotionally unmoved.  Which just means that, if there is any sort of poetic justice to this world, I deserve to be the MOST SICK person of ALL.  Which is great, because I am also, as previously stated, a semi-hypochondriac.

This is a completely undoctored photo of that time I was on Grey's Anatomy.

I have been waiting my entire life to be told that I'm dying.  First, there was the weird lump behind my ear, which they told me was probably nothing, but I still think contains a piece of my unborn twin.  Then, I started randomly collapsing--which, it turns out, is fairly common for people like me who "don't like the taste of water."  But they still had to run a bunch of tests on my heart, which turned out to be healthy despite having an irregular beat.  "Your heart is weird," my doctor told me, "but it won't kill you."  Funny, people have said the same thing about me.

Recently, however, my only health concern has been this horrible asthmatic sea lion cough.  I've had it on and off for 22 years, but only now have my doctors decided to figure out why.  Naturally, I'm assuming the worst.  If having a PhD from WebMD has taught me anything, it's that if you think you have a paper cut, a cold, or a sore muscle, what you probably actually have is cancer.  It doesn't matter if my cough is just a temporary thing that happens when I'm around dust and smoke.  It's probably still Bubonic Plague.

Which brings me to where I am now, coughing spastically and convinced that bad karma has doomed me to a short and germy life.  A coworker just stopped by my desk to ask if the doctor has determined what's wrong yet.  "Nope," I told him before also blurting, in my paranoia, "it's probably a terminal disease!!"  The coworker nodded distractedly, drifting away toward the kitchen.  "At least you're not contagious, then, right?"



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Living Like I'm Dying

If we’ve learned anything from modern philosophy, meaning Facebook bumper stickers, Kris Allen, and inspirational posters with photos of ducklings on them, it’s to “live like we’re dying.”  I am not doing that today.

You see, I would NOT like to spend my last day on earth in this coffee shop using my iPod to drown out the three Adele songs the radio seems to be playing on repeat.  When we are told to “live each day like it’s the last,” I think we’re expected to run up mountains, bungee jump off cliffs, and announce to the men or women we’ve been pining over for years that “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU and also I am dying.”  But if I were really going to die tomorrow (knock on wood), I would do none of those things.  I would just cry and then eat a lot of macaroni and cheese.

But even though today I’m not living like I’m dying by sending out a mass text that reads “luv u, plz make sure my cat is fed after im gone,” I do sound like I’m dying.  And sounding like I’m dying is kind of like living like I’m dying.  I have this very distinct, deep, gravelly, asthmatic-sea-lion cough, and I’ve had it on and off for years.  It’s pretty impossible to imagine just how awful this sounds, unless your brain can combine a dog’s bark with the sound of a broken garbage disposal.  If I had been born centuries ago, an infant with this hearty, diabolical cough, my villagers, fearing the spread of disease, would probably have abandoned me on some forsaken hillside, where kindly shepherd people would have found me and raised me as their own.  As I grew up, they would probably attempt to exorcise me, and if that didn’t work out, I probably would be screwed.  I’m glad I live in this century. 

But having my cough now ain’t no picnic, neither.  It’s uncomfortable for me when women at the mall lock eyes with me, gingerly reach for my hands, and tell me they’ll pray for me.  It’s offensive when self-righteous 14-year-old girls flip around to face me after a particularly asthmatic fit to gloat, “God, smoke much?!”  The only time my cough actually benefitted me was when a waiter brought me a free brownie, complemented me on my “deep vibrato cough,” and told me he hoped I’d get better soon.  I love brownies.  It was awesome. 

But here’s what I’ve discovered: People do not believe me when I tell them that there is nothing wrong me, and that I just was plopped on this earth sounding like a dying person.  Even though I am NOT dying, it makes people uncomfortable when I tell them I’m not; they think I’m lying to them, lying to myself, and generally living in denial of some obviously fatal condition.  Strangers expressing their sympathy would much rather I nod forlornly, thank them for their concern, and murmur something like, “Today is actually a good day… maybe tomorrow will be better,” or sigh, “Well… I’m a fighter,” with a wistful look in my eye that says, “Oh, to reach 30.”

If I actually start doing this, I realize I’ll be taking the phrase “live like you’re dying” more literally than, perhaps, Kris Allen and the duckling posters intended.  But the way I see it is, if I were to really live this day like it were my last, I’d be in a hospital on oxygen, screaming profanities and poetry verses in an attempt to leave my loved ones with something profound to remember me by.  At least I’m out of bed.  Because hey… I’m a fighter.