Allergyboy

This is how Jessica “Buffalo Wings” Simpson looks like when she’s 2 seconds away from sneezing:

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Hello, people of the world. Remember the previous post I wrote? Yeah, the one about the “porenjers”. Uhhh… it’s actually not meant to be taken seriously. You see, a little birdie just told me that some people are actually wondering who my D.H. wannabe friend is. As in they have a list, and are currently eliminating names from said list until they eventually find the true identity of this purported D.H. wannabe. Oooowkaaay… Ummm… not that there’s anything wrong with being an overseas Domestic Helper (In fact, more power to them. They’re the “bagong bayanis” and all), but the actual friend that inspired my previous post DOES NOT really dream of becoming a cleaning lady for some idiot, American redneck. Nor is she so desperate to actually resort to finding the man of her dreams online. Let me put it this way: I blog about Paris Hilton, cameltoes, corn poop and SNOT. Why on earth would you take my blog seriously?

I have a friend (who shall remain nameless)… And she dreams of one day becoming a D.H. (domestic helper) in an industrialized western nation, where she will find a caucasian man with a strong, fuzzy chest, who will sweep her off her feet. She dreams that such a man, with a pointed nose, a square jaw and prominent cheek bones, shall carry her off to suburbia, where they shall live in a house with a white picket fence and have 2.5 exotic, mix-bred children (but there shall be no golden retriever, because she hates dogs). So to this dear friend of mine, I say unto you that I have found the path that will lead you to your bliss. You shall find your “porenjer” soon. He is but a click away…

[This is Part 2 of The World's Biggest Hypochondriac. Please read Part 1 if you haven't yet.]

So fastforward to Tuesday, which I miraculously survived thanks largely in part to the amazing support of my friends Karmi, Joe and Nin (oh how dramatic). I must also thank Diane for requesting the Universe to conspire to bring me peace of mind (she has connections). And, there I was sitting infront of my doctor’s office waiting to be sent in so I could find out the results. I was, to say the least, extremely anxious - like the-sky-is-falling-oh-my-god-we’re-all-gonna-die kind of anxious. And right beside my doctor’s clinic is a pediatrician’s office. Now, this office is integral to my story because if it had not been for this particular clinic, I would not have encounterd these people who I will refer to as "the Fat Brat from Hell and her Idiot Mother" or FBFH & IM.

So this is what happened: a mother and her daughter (who looked to be about anywhere between 2 to 4 years of age) came in for an appointment with this pediatrician. They sat down to wait for their turn about 3 seats away from me. The daughter (FBFH) then proceeds to tell her mother (IM) that she wants to go to Mcdonald’s. To which the mother replies in a rather calm and nice manner, "ok baby, we’ll go after our appointment". So, ok. Fine. Whatever. But then… Fat Brat from Hell would have none of that. She wanted her happy meal immediately and began to throw a tantrum. Now, I am normally understanding of kids, because, well… they’re just kids. But FBFH was OBNOXIOUS! She began wailing and screaming like a banshee on steroids, telling her mom "I WANT TO GO TO MCDONALD’S NOW!" And Idiot Mother just kept saying the same thing over and over, "ok, baby, we’ll go after". This went on for atleast thirty minutes. FBFH was screaming her lungs out for the entire hallway to hear, and IM kept saying the same DAMN thing, which CLEARLY WAS NOT WORKING. And there I was 3 seats away, on the verge of a nervous breakdown because my overly dramatic brain was already imagining my doctor saying, "I’m sorry, but you only have 3 weeks to live," and FBFH just kept sreaming and screaming and SCREAMING. I became so anxious that my left arm began experiencing involuntary muscle spasms. Seriously. I really thought I was going to lose it. So here’s what I did: I closed my eyes… and I prayed… I prayed to the Lord Almighty to give me strength in this most challenging time. I prayed to Mother Mary to interceed and bring me peace. The power of prayer, dear readers. It kept me SANE. Because otherwise, this is what I would have told them:

Excuse me, ma’am. I am sitting here in agony, waiting for my doctor to give me news that could potentially change my life. I am nervous. I am anxious. I am in PAIN! And I am trying to keep myself as calm as possible. But, the fact that your child is screaming her lungs out is NOT. HELPING. AT. ALL. In fact… IT’S DRIVING ME INSANE! So please… I beg of you… I implore you… go to the nearest Mcdonald’s branch, get a FUCKING BIG MAC AND STUFF IT DOWN YOUR FAT KID’S THROAT SO THE REST OF US CAN WAIT HERE IN PEACE! Have a nice day.

The End.

Oh wait… so I got a clean bill of health. And looking back, I now realize how crazy and laughable this entire situation was. And I think that realization has made me stop worrying too much about my health. In other words, I feel that I have come out of this just a little bit less insane. So maybe I’m not the world’s biggest hypochondriac after all.       

Wikipedia. org defines hypochondria as:

A somatoform disorder in which one has the unfounded belief that he or she is suffering from a serious illness. Hypochondria is often characterized by irrational fears of being diseased/dying, obsessions over minor bodily symptoms or imperfections, doubt and disbelief in doctors’ diagnosis, constant self-examination and self-diagnosis and preoccupation with one’s body. Hypochondriacs often require constant reassurance, sometimes from multiple doctors, family and friends.

Hypochondria is often associated with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and anxiety, and can also be brought on by stress.

My dear, faithful readers, I am a hypochondriac - perhaps the world’s biggest even. I am the type who would start reading something about things like multiple sclerosis, hepatitis or perhaps sickle-cell anemia and immediately after, begin believing that I actually have them. And, as I suspect with many other self-confessed hypochondriacs, I came to the conclusion that I am one through self-diagnosis, and not by the aid of a trained psychiatrist. So it’s amusing, really. When I say I’m a hypochondriac, I am essentially admitting that I think there’s something wrong with the way that I keep thinking that there’s something wrong with me. Anyway…

So, I was having a bit of a health scare these past few weeks. Well, actually, to say that it was "a bit" would be a huge understatement, because I was completely agonizing over this for quite some time. But I also had no doubt in my mind that this was mostly (if not all) psychosomatic because, as I’ve said, I am perhaps the world’s biggest hypochondriac. But I decided that the best course to take was to go see my doctor so she could put my fears to rest. So I went to her, she made her diagnosis, wrote down stuff on her doctory chart thingies, gave me a few prescriptions and scheduled me for a few blood tests (and by few, I mean A LOT). So I went to the blood testing center to have copious amounts of blood drawn from my arm. I requested that they do this to me lying down because I was certain that I was going to faint if I did this in any other position. So the blood extraction went along fine (well, as fine as things like that could go), but then I heard one of the Med Tech’s say "ay, may needle akong hindi natapon". HUUUUWAAAT???? So, of course, being the super, ultra, mega worrywart that I am, I panicked (Quietly, I must add. I have this horrible habit of making myself suffer in silence). Anyway, there I was lying down on this tiny bed, thinking that somebody had just quite possibly stuck a dirty, disease infected needle in me. So I politely asked for an explanation. I was reassured that the particular needle in question was not used on me, and that it was not thrown simply because the other Med Tech was just waiting for the trash bin to be replaced. They would have completely noticed a used needle, because for one, they have to get a new one out of a drawer and not from someone else’s arm everytime they draw blood, and two, the needles have caps and you had to tear off a special sticker to be able to take the cap off. So, fine, I was calmed down by her explanation, and was told that the results would be sent to my doctor by Thursday (which was about a week away at that time). This, dear readers, was one of the longest weeks of my life. Mainly because I am slightly insane and keep making gigantic problems out of nothing.

So Thursday came, and I called my doctor’s clinic up to confirm my appointment. AND THEN… (capitalized and in bold for dramatic effect) her secretary told me that my doctor was sick and would not be able to see me until TUESDAY!

OH. MY. GOD. I. WANT. TO. DIE!

So there I was in complete and utter AGONY upon realizing that I would have to spend 5 more days in even more AGONY. For the first time in my life, I completely felt and understood what the phrase "on the verge of a nervous breakdown" meant.

Continued in Part 2…

Joe is one of my most dependable friends ever, and I’m prettty sure I’m not his only friend who feels that way. But another thing most of his friends know is how much of a hilarious drunk he is. The last time he got plastered was just so funny that I simply had to blog about it in this post entitled “Painting A Picture Of Joe’s Drunken State”

******

Lying down in an awkward position on the floor of our friend Karmi’s CRV with his head sticking out one of the side doors, Joe begins to scream out phrases like “I want to die!”, “Nin, run me over, my mom will forgive you!”, “Choob, where’s Tita Ibet (my mom) I want to talk to her,” and other such things coupled with random intervals of puking on pavement. He then, for whatever reason, proceeds to stick out his arm. Now, due to the lack of dexterity and alertness caused obviously by all the alcohol in his system, his hand quickly drops to the floor and lands on the rather large puddle of his own regurgitation. “Oh God, my puke!” exclaimed my drunken friend. At this point, we all cannot help but laugh…

After we’ve had our fun, our other friend Paul and I begin helping Joe out of his ultra-weird, yoga-like floor pose so that he may sit up properly. This was no easy thing to do, so we really had to put a lot of effort and force into this task (dare I say that we are such true friends), which may have unfortunately caused Joe some very minor hip injuries. But that’s ok. Joe will bounce back. He always does.

*****

Dear Hoe,

This is exactly why all your friends love you. You bring so much joy and laughter into our lives. Don’t ever change.

Teyker. Gadbles.

Sincerely,
Choob