I have just about every phobia known to man. Nyctophobia, Thanatophobia, AMBULOthanatophobia and don't get me started on my hyperchondriasis. The list of things I'm afraid of is long and ridiculous. And then, there's my phobia that my kids will one day bear the marks of my phobia's. I don't think there's a name for that yet, but I've decided to call it Becauseofmomophobia. I mention these things not because I think of any readers as psychologists, but because my son, daughter and husband are all, simultaneously sick, which is the worst thing that can happen to a hypochondriac with a toxic fear of death. I've been a dervish of symptom checks, palm-guided temperature gauging and sight deduced diagnosis. Mostly, I've been watching everyone around me for signs of death and it's driving my husband insane. He keeps sighing, "Can't I just be sick? I just want you to let me be sick." I can't. I wish I could. Truth be told, he'd probably feel better, sooner if I was physically capable of walking away from him and allowing him to wheeze, puke, shit and sleep without a constant pulse check. My neurosis actually woke him up during a much needed nap. When he asked what I was doing, I said I was taking his temperature, when I was really making sure he was still breathing. Crazy, right? You don't know the half. It's only gotten more severe with the onslaught of my children and their indefensible immune systems. Are they breathing? Are they keeping food down? What does my son mean when he says his "belly hurts"? Why does there have to be a million different possible diagnosis' for one symptom and why does my mind go to the most serious possibility of those possibilities? I constantly think about the awful things that could happen to my children, from abduction, to car accidents, to having them sleepwalk out of the house and into the frigid night...for real, I've thought about that and considered keeping a gate in the hallway just to stop it from happening. Don't you think I KNOW, how sick that sounds? I keep comparing all those horrendous things, to the mild sniffle and bout of diarrhea I'm currently dealing with, in the hopes that it will ease my furious meddling. However, all it's doing is making me think about all those awful things happening to them, WHILE they're sick. My three and a half year old son insisted today, and I quote, "Please stop asking if I'm okay. I'M FINE, MAMA!",after which, he pushed my hand off of his forehead. This infectious week has taught me that my family is resilient even in the face of nasty, slimy, stinky illness and that the only thing killing my patients is my bedside manner. No, they weren't dying of anything, but a strong desire to kill me.
