"You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do today."

I'm 35 years old. I have low cholesterol and blood pressure and during my short time on the planet I've had two stress echocardiograms. That's more than some people, twice my age will ever have.  My first one was in 2000, my last was in 2012 and both doctor's results and opinions were the same. For those of you under the age of 50, that don't know what a stress echocaridiogram is I'll tell you. It's an examine that is usually performed on people much older than 35, with cardiac related issues; i.e. high blood pressure, high cholesteral, diabetes and a history of heart disease in their immediate families, among other things. It's also a test begrudgingly performed on an anxious, hyperchondriac, whose doctor is sick of seeing her for ER follow-ups.  I was fitted with electrodes that registered my heart rate, given an ultrasound, instructed to walk on a treadmill until I thought my lungs would burst, given another ultrasound and asked what I was doing there for a stress echocardiogram. "You're perfectly healthy. Whatever is going on here with your pain, there's no chance it's cardiac related. So, you don't have to be anxious about it anymore, okay?" The cardiologist sighed, looking at my chart, then into my incredulous gaze and once more at my chart, before shaking his head and leaving.
        My mind has had a kung-fu grip on my mortality since my age could be given in single digits; which was when I attended my great-grandfather's funeral. It was the first point in my life, that I clearly remember seeing death and registering it as something that I absolutely didn't want happening to me.  It was shortly thereafter that I had my first panic attack. For those of you who have never had a massive panic attack, I can descibe it to you in five simple words; "OH MY GOD, I'M DYING!"   When I have them, I can't breath and can barely talk. My mind races trying to figure out what the fuck is going on inside my body. I experience pain in my chest, my arms and back; it's unnerving and every time, I'm convinced it's the end. I've been to the ER more times than I can count. I'm sure my records are very entertaining reading material for any doctor unfortunate enough to have to me as a patient.  Without going deep into my medical history and thereby making a very long story short, the ER visits have become fewer and farther between, but the problem will never really be resolved, because I am the problem. No doctor of physical medicine will be able to cure me, no matter how many tests, drugs or reassurring results they offer.  This has nothing to do with my hyperchondria, though a smidgen of that goes a long way with with someone who's neurotic. This is a profoundly rooted fear of dying. It's natural to dread the vast nothingness of death to a certain degree, but my panic has reached an unnatural level. I've always found life to be amazing, even when the individual parts surrounding mine don't seem all that amazing. I can't imagine the day when I won't be able to appreciate all the intangible, little pieces that make up the living, breathing wall of what I am. I can deal with not knowing what's awaits me post mortem, what I can't fathom is the end of revelling in all the things I do know. How my children's breath smells when they first wake up. All the noises my husband makes, both good and downright fucking disgusting.  The way it feels to stub my toe on the same goddamn dumbell almost every morning when I get out of bed. Even the sound of the motorcycles going by my window at midnight on a weekday, which I can't stand. I'd take all of those things for eternity over nothing...or whatever else may come after I've ceased to exist. I've buried myself a hundred times and it's frustrating as hell to claw your way out of the grave only to throw yourself back in a few days later. It makes enjoying all those amazing things about my life a very difficult thing and I'm kind of getting tired of being so afraid of something I have less than NO control over. Death is a certainty and that's about the only certainty within that certainty. How, when and why are the TBD factors. I blame a lot of my extreme health sensitivity on the media. We are inundated with symptoms, tips and warnings on a nearly constant basis; the major downside of  24/7 access to internet and television programming. Turn on the news now. I guarentee there will be some story about  overlooked signs of heart attack in women or how drinking a cup of coffee in the morning has been shown to maybe, possibly be fractionally responsible for breast cancer, in women under the age of 40. I have so much information about my body and what I should and shouldn't put into it that I'm all twisted up.
        My grandparents weren't concerned with shit like this. They were concerned with playing the cards and enjoying the game to the best of their abilities. They lived well into their eighties and that was without the medical advances which seem to be growing by the day. My father didn't see a doctor until he was in his fifties and that was because my mother made him. Up until that point he was feeling fine and perfectly happy to go on until he stopped breathing. With or without the aid of doctors, I am going to die. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe 70 years from now, I don't know. That's the point, I guess. I'll never know, no matter how many tests I have or pills I take or heartbeats I count, I will never know. No one can promise me that I'm going to live forever, but if I keep worrying about it, I'm not going to really live, at all.