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I'm Sick of Being Called a Hypochondriac


I hear that the word being bruited about by my friends on The Islands and Cape Cod is that I am a hypochondriac! Lies, lies, base canards. Nothing could be further from the truth — and it's a sad way to start off the New Year. Right? Course right.

I'm a sick, old geezer, do you understand. So be nice to me. Like the lovely lady in the pediatric ward of Charlotte Hungerford Hospital, who last fall helped give me a shower after I had just been unhooked from four days on a IV liquid diet

Got that, four days on a liquid diet? Does that sound like the sort of food that fuels an Olympic champion? Granted I’m no athlete but you still need more than a few drops of fortified liquid to even push the call button.

So what was I, the hypochondriac, doing in the hospital to begin with? I'm glad you asked. I was recovering from an emergency gall bladder operation and getting ready for transfer to Rose Haven in Litchfield for a week of physical therapy. But you can't leave a hospital smelling like a bedpan, so one of the nice attendants (whom I have known since she was a Girl Scout leader in Goshen some 30-ish years ago) helped give me a shower.

At first you are a little embarrassed to be seen in the altogether with your own daughter’s Girl Scout leader. But you can get used to most anything.

The shower was refreshing. I got dressed, kissed the nice lady goodbye and thanked her for all her kindnesses.

Three weeks later, up on my feet, supported by my trusty Chinese wooden cane ($9 in Litchfield's caring Murphy's Pharmacy), I donned my favorite blue blazer and hurried to the Torrington Country Club for the annual Christmas lunch of the Goshen Garden Club.

Who rushes up to greet me? The nice nurse who swabbed me down in the hospital. She's a beautiful woman and was dressed to the nines. Kissing me she declaimed, "Barney, it's so nice to see you in clothes again!"


u u u


The dictionary defines hypochondriac as a "patient suffering from imaginary ills." That's not me, a patient whose diseased gall bladder was imaginary.

And what about the time last June when I had the most terrible attack of GERD until mid-afternoon, when I decided it wasn't GERD at all, but a cardiac incident, particularly since I had been suffering from intense pain right over my sternum. Finally, in desperation I pushed the button of my Life Alert system.

From the help box a voice from Jacksonville, Florida, boomed: "Are you having an emergency?" I weakly replied: "I'm having a heart attack!" Life Alert had all the data. No further questions, i.e. verify your name, address, mother's maiden name, password, e-mail address, bank account, none of that baloney.

In seven minutes the Goshen Volunteer Ambulance Corps roared up to the front door and I was whisked off to the hospital. But the EKG in the ambulance didn't show that a heart attack was in progress. Yikes, what was going on?

In the emergency room another EKG. No heart attack. Aha, The Goshenh hypochondriac has finally been unmasked!


u u u


But wait, the ER doctor said there was a blood test that was more accurate than the EKGs. The blood was drawn and before you could say "Barney Laschever is a hypochondriac," the doc was beside my gurney. "You've had a minor heart attack." I was crestfallen. "No such thing as a good heart attack, even a minor one," I mumbled.

The next day I was shipped off to Hartford Hospital where an angiogram confirmed the diagnosis and was followed by angioplasty and a stent to open the blocked artery.

Hypochondriac, indeed.

Two weeks ago I underwent the knife again, this time for my second cataract operation.

Hypochondriac, pshaw! Tell it to the Marines.

 


Curmudgeon Barnett Laschever of Goshen is an 82-year-old freelance writer who is doing his best to keep the medical profession economically viable. He also is co-author with Andi Marie Cantele of "Connecticut, An Explorer's Guide."

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