The Doctor’s certificate said, ‘Medical Condition’, which is the Docs’ way of saying, “No idea”. I don’t know what I had either, but it dropped me faster and harder than a schoolbag on a Friday afternoon.
At the hospital I had some tests done, and got asked a lot of disconcerting questions before being discharged to die at home. That was several weeks ago and some of you will be pleased to hear that I survived.
But last week disaster struck again. One evening I sauntered off to work as my devoted family gathered on the footpath to wave me farewell… who am I kidding? I stamped down the road muttering to myself while they sat round the ol’ flat screen, unaware that I had left. Anyway, a few productive hours later, I rang home to say ‘Goodnight’ to the wee ones, and to make sure Long Suffering Wife wasn’t entertaining some male company, who might have been thinking of taking advantage of my beer fridge while I was out.
It was not a happy house. Long Suffering Wife informed me that all of them had been hurling up breakfast since I left, and she asked how I was feeling. I gazed down at the plastic dish that contained the remains of my lovingly made TV dinner, and felt my belly lurch. It was merely gas.
The next morning, in spite of all my desperate begging to the boss to work another shift for free, I returned home. The house ponged of disinfectant and desperation. Inching my way through the debris, I felt like a germ-a-phobe who had stumbled into an infectious ward.
Long Suffering Wife was shattered, and the kids lay listlessly in front of the tele which was switched off; a sure sign that things were pretty crook. I unplugged the computer, set it up in the quarantined area (aka: the shed), and consulted ‘Dr. Google’.
Of the sixty three bazillion things the symptoms could have represented, I was no wiser several hours later when the Eldest Princess arrived, sneezed in my face and announced she had a cold. Later, as I sat alone in an empty field lathering on disinfectant, and gulping down vitamin tablets, it occurred to me that perhaps it really is possible to make yourself sick with worry. I wonder if I could get Doc Google to print ‘Galloping Hypochondria’ on my Medical certificate?