Brandy Alexander
When does Googling medical information lead to good things? Never! Almost never! I’m sure someone, somewhere has a story about how Google saved their life, but I will argue that in the VAST MAJORITY OF CASES, it leads to nothing more than horrifying misdiagnosis and panic. When I was pregnant with Sam, I was ordered to stay off the internet, and I mostly succeeded, but apparently when not faced with something very limited in scope and/or specific directives, I am free to my own completely insane devices.
I mean, it’s ALWAYS something awful. ALWAYS. I posted about this phenomenon on Twitter and was regaled with stories from people who self-diagnosed with MULTIPLE forms of cancer, brain tumors and the inevitable need for tissue and/or organ transplants, all of which are unnecessary.
The question is why? Why do we do this to ourselves? WHY? It’s like we have some kind of amnesia after every Google Incident. We KNOW better. AND YET WE DO IT, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Expecting a different result!
It is the very definition of insanity. Get all the (totally out of context) information you can! Pretend you’re a doctor! Like, seriously, sometimes I actually believe I AM A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL because of Google.
I’ve considered going to nursing school on multiple occasions throughout my life, but the more this goes on, the more I think that’s probably a Very Bad Idea. Best go back to become a therapist instead. Helping profession, with less potential for hypochondriacal crazymaking.
Onward! While I’m normally loath to bring up dreams, I have to tell you that in the last few weeks, mine have been BIZARRE and kind of disturbing. That one-off incident where I dreamed I was having triplets aside (I COULD SEE THREE PAIRS OF FEET STICKING THROUGH MY BELLY), I’ve been consistently dreaming about absolutely losing my shit and SCREAMING at someone. Like, SCREAMING, in a completely out of control manner, and it’s strangely cathartic, until I have to deal with the consequences. Once, it was Meg Whitman, another it was the OB who failed to diagnose my TRIPLETS, despite the presence of THREE PAIRS OF FEET, and I wake up sweating, exhausted from the effort of screaming (SCAH-REEMING) at whoever it is I’m lashing out towards.
It’s … what IS that? I am many things, but for better for worse, I am not particularly non-confrontational. In fact, I am rather confrontational when I have to be (though I hope not egregiously so). I’m not exactly fraught with pent-up anger over here — if I have a problem with someone or something, I will usually address it directly. But apparently in my dreams, I would prefer to address it MORE DIRECTLY and VERY LOUDLY and all screamy and sweaty-like. To people like Meg Whitman.
Thanksgiving was effing CHAOS, with twelve adults, seven kids, three dogs and a lot of yelling just to be heard. I kept forgetting to get up to drink water, and so had approximately eleven beers delivered to me, plus wine and other sundry alcoholic bits, and these unfortunately served as my only source of hydration for the ENTIRE DAY. For the first time in YEARS, was painfully hungover the next day, when I demanded that Adam get up with Sam at the last minute (it wasn’t his day, and yes, we alternate like civilized people), and slept until 11 a.m. like some kind of Black Friday teenager. That was a bit blissful. Well, minus the hangover.
And OH, our holiday bliss continues with the annual Rubinfest for Hannukah this weekend. There are flights booked, cars rented and DVD players that, oh my God, had better start CHARGING, or I am going to COME UNDONE. Because I’m sorry, no, no I cannot handle a toddler on a plane who has not been properly anesthetized using the power of Muno and DJ Lance Rock.
I hope your Thanksgiving was rad.
*Feist. And probably one of the few alcoholic drinks I didn’t consider consuming on Thanksgiving.
29 comments November 29th, 2010