Hypochondria and my dog Billie Jean

My dog is exacerbating my hypochondria
Victimized again by Rev. Donald Francis Gavan
By Terrance Gavan
I am a confirmed hypochondriac.
I blame it on my upbringing and I pin it specifically on my uncle, the Reverend Donald Francis Gavan.
Gav was wildly cognizant of every working part of his slowly discombobulating body.
A chronic worrier.
A serial hypochondriac.
Now the medical definition of the disease states that:
“A person who has hypochondriasis, a disorder characterized by a preoccupation with body functions and the interpretation of normal body sensations (such as sweating) or minor abnormalities (such as minor aches and pains) as portending problems of major medical moment. Reassurance by physicians and others only serves to increase the hypochondriac's persistent anxiety about their health.”
The Reverend Donald Francis never actually took these minor complaints to his doctor.
He did however bring it constantly and continuously to his rather large extended family in Ottawa.
He was a constant presence at Saturday and Sunday Gavan family dinners.
His own hypochondria was enormously and prodigiously enlarged when confronted by other people’s maladies.
He was a “hypochondriac chart topper” taking extravagant and almost Rambo-like zeal in medical one-upmanship
If you had a cold … Uncle Don had the Asian Flu.
If you had shin splints … The Rev had a torturous ankle condition from a “pre-existing wartime injury” that “flared up” in hot humid conditions; or extended cold snaps.
My mother had three major coronaries.
The Reverend Donald would visit regularly.
Inevitably he would leave the hospital with mysterious chest pains, shortness of breath and shooting pains down his right arm.
By the time we reached the car - having watched a procession of emergency room victims pass by in various states of disrepair - Father Don would be limping, wheezing, and wiping rivers of sweat from his forehead.
“My arm’s swelling up, I have a migraine, I think I’ve got a bad case of Denghi Fever, let’s get the hell out of here,” Gav would say, sprint-limping like a gut-shot Ostrich to the car.
I happened to mention one Sunday that I was doing some research on the rise of smallpox on the African continent.
I swear to God, Gav popped his head around the corner of the kitchen.
“Tell me about it,” says Reverend Donald Francis. “I have these huge red welts around my abdomen and my joints have been sore as hell since last Tuesday. Smallpox eh? Have you got any reading material that I can take home tonight?”
Understand that we all loved Father Don.
We just wondered a lot about his almost manic preoccupation with disease.
He smoked about three to 15 packs of cigarettes a day.
Never once did I ever hear him complain about an allergy to smoke, or some concern that his habit may be contributing to a lowered life expectancy. His own hypochondria never extended to his own forlorn lifestyle choices.
The medical profession calls this “whistling past the graveyard.”
I call it ironic, because it was lung cancer that finally swept the good Donald Francis off this patch of green in the late nineties.
My own hypochondria I attribute directly to the Reverend Donald Francis. Rampant and derelict access to the Internet and all those dastardly self-diagnosis sites doesn’t help either. And now I have an itchy problem with my dog Billie Jean.
Some time ago I read an article about the canine’s ability to sniff out disease in humans. It said: “Already dogs are used to warn of epileptic seizures, low blood sugar and heart attacks, although whether they are detecting changes in smell or physical behavior is still unknown. And, while they may not be able to perform CPR, some canines do know how to call 911.”
I am now fully tuned in to my dog’s first-alert warning system.
If she takes an inordinate interest in my feet, I am off like a shot to Haliburton emergency services.
“What’s wrong,” Triage Person will ask.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, “but my dog Billie Jean seems to think I may have a pre-existing ankle problem. Maybe run a battery of X-Rays and set me up for a Cat Scan?”
My preoccupation with Billie’s moods has increased exponentially over the past two years as I do further research on canine diagnosis via my hi-speed Googler.
I am stretching the patience of the very solicitous Triage Person at Haliburton General.
One day last week Billie stared unblinking at the top of my head.
Fearing the worst, I bolted for emergency.
Triage person sits looking at me with that perplexed and haggard look of the long-suffering soul.
“Terry, what now?” says Triage Person.
“I don’t know, but Billie’s thinking brain aneurysm, and I’m guessing we’ll be wanting a full PET scan,” I say, tapping the top of my head which produced a hollow Bongo-Congo sound. “Oh and she was licking my hand … what do you think? Carpal Tunnel or arthritis?”
She points me to my doctor.
My doctor, Marcia Welby MD, is a no-nonsense practitioner, and she is not quite as patient or understanding as Triage Person.
“Terry, I want you to quit bothering Triage Person,” says Dr Marcia.
“Billie Jean is not clairvoyant and dogs do not have a license to practice medicine in Ontario. Oh, and I want you to put a block on Web MD on your Internet,” says Marcia.
We have come to a grudging agreement.
I limit my Triage Person visits to one or two per month.
But just in case … I am currently teaching Billie Jean to dial 911.
She’s apparently a quick learner.
Last month I got a bill from my long distance provider.
Did you know that a random call to the Australian Outback comes in at $165 per hour?
Billie Jean is giving me a migraine.
I think.