I'm not a doctor, I just play one on the internet

I’m doing that thing again where I feel kind of fat and maybe a little achy so I start Googling symptoms like fatigue, weight gain and moodiness and start reading up on all my possible illnesses. There are a lot of things that pop up when you Google those symptoms. The top 10 are:

Abdominal Obesity Metabolic Syndrome.
Ok, I feel kind of fat and that may be because I just at 2 mini burgers and fries from Ruby Tuesday’s, but I still shop at normal mainstream clothing stores so I think I am alright with this one.
Achard-Thiers Syndrome.
This occurs only in diabetic post-menopausal women. I am indeed a woman, but thankfully the other 2 do not apply…at least not today with this bout of hypochondria.
Bipolar Disorder.
Really? Can bipolar disorder really make you gain weight? I think this really only applies to the moodiness part, don’t you? Besides, I would love to be that manic, but I think I am too lazy to actually have both sides of the bipolar coin.
Cushing’s’ Syndrome
OK, now we’re talking. This is something I can sink my teeth into. When I click on the link, it tells me there are 81 more possible symptoms for this disease! Oh my, this is a veritable feast for hypochondriac like me! But, when I read the symptoms it’s like someone threw darts at a wall of symptoms – weight gain or weight loss, hair loss or hirsutism, thin arms, fat neck, blah, blah, blah. This is too all over the board and would require an actual trip to an actual doctor to diagnose, so I am skipping Cushing’s, although, I do think my dog may have it.
Depression
Whatever.
Depressive Disorders 
Cop out! How is this different from depression? Screw you. Been there, done that, give me something that is actually going to get me some sympathy and a magic cure that will zap my girth!
Postpartum Depression.
Now, this is serious. I actually had this after giving birth to Max and is indeed no laughing matter, however, I was thin and trim while suffering from this condition and I had nice big breastfeeding boobs to boot.
Autoimmune Lymphoproliferative Syndrome.
Hmm, I like the sound of this. It sounds like something that would be a diagnosis on House or my favorite, Mystery Diagnosis. However, I did some digging and really, with my very limited knowledge of anatomy and biology, it was all gobledy gook. I should have paid more attention in my Biology for Liberal Arts majors’ class in college, but, I did not.
Addison’s disease.
This one really does haunt me. It always pops up when I do my symptom searches AND it was the most recent illness on Mystery Diagnosis. Some of the additional symptoms are spot on – craving salty foods, irritability, moodiness, sleepiness, emotional distress, but as I continue to pick my symptoms, I can’t ignore that some are just wishful thinking. For example, who wouldn’t love to have “Underarm hair loss?” Or, my other 2 favorites, anorexia and collapse. Still, I do like pickles, so I will keep Addison’s on the short list.
Crohn’s Disease
This entry took me on a 15 minute journey into a tangled and frigtening web of symptoms, diagnoses, and heart-stopping fear. In fact, I got so freaked out, I decided to just shut down Google and accept that I am a little plump, tired because I am a mother and I work full time, and, frankly, just a little mean.

From the time I was little, I have just known there is some rationale explanation for all of my sneaky and elusive symptoms. One day, the web will lead me to the correct diagnosis. It will have to be the web, because the doctors I have seen over the years, the ones with their fancy blood tests and barium enemas, they just aren’t finding it. Slackers.

Simone

In years past, I have gone down to the French Quarter on Mardi Gras Day and paraded around incognito, usually dressed as a fairy or something that allowed me to wear a flowing dress and lots of makeup. Despite what the rest of the world believes, Mardi Gras is not all boobs and beads. Mardi Gras is a day to let your alter ego burst forth and shine through and, for some people, that means lifting your shirt in public so that drunken fraternity boys and old men engaging in frotteurism can pelt you with cheap plastic beads.

 

But, for most of us locals, it means people watching, meeting old friends, and acting like a fool for a day.

 

Back when I used to drink, I would, after having a few beers in me, tell people my name was Simone. I would tell this to new people and also people who knew me already, and they, knowing that I tended to get mean as the night wore on, would just take the easy route and not argue. In my mind, Simone was exotic and beautiful. Instead of a plain girl from the suburbs, Simone was mysterious and daring. She was a gypsy and a poet and wasn’t afraid to live her life as she saw fit.

 

On the other hand, Claire was scared, insecure and generally consumed with self-loathing. Simone was that part of me who came out only when I drank enough to forget how much I hated myself. After I got sober, Simone went into hiding for a while. Without my bottled courage, Simone stayed deep inside and just when I thought she might be gone forever, Mardi Gras 2002 rolled around and she came out with a vengeance.

 

I would love to say that I went on a meditative retreat with my swami and tapped into an abyss of self love, but I would be lying. I realized instead, that if I painted my face entirely and dressed completely different than normal, then I could parade around on Mardi Gras Day and be whoever I wanted, and that’s when Simone came back. I was, for one day a year, stunningly beautiful, alluringly mysterious and completely not the Claire who is me for the other 364 days of the year.

 

This year, Mardi Gras was quiet. Simone is still there, but instead of parading around with wings and fairy dust, Max and I walked our neighborhood and looked for ant piles. My little boy, just like me, does not like parades and big crowds, and so, Simone will just have to wait a few years until she can come out again to play. Besides, there is no greater joy than hearing my little boy tell me he loves me and climb into my arms after a long day of ant hunting. Simone pales in comparison.

 

You're a nice girl, but...

The other day, Mike was driving me to the airport for a business trip. I felt uncharacteristically calm as my usual MO is anxiety before a trip. You know the free floating kind that sometimes erupts into misdirected anger…generally at Mike. Yet, he continues to taxi me to the airport for these trips.  He has the patience of a saint and is easily the most forgiving man I have ever met.

 

We were tooling along the highway and he started telling me a story. It is a story I have heard many times before, but after so many years you run out of new material and you just tell each other the same story over and over again. I imagine when we are in our 70s sitting in an assisted living facility our son will visit us and think we are old and senile because we tell each other the same stories over and over again when in reality, we do that now and it is not the result of dementia.

 

This particular story he was telling is a good one. He and some friend whose name I can’t remember met a couple of girls while on vacation in Florida. He and this friend, let’s call him Peabody (all of Mike’s childhood friends have odd names and I have learned not to question this because someone did once confirm the existence of a friend named Eebazabba) were around 18 at the time and the girls, who were from Alabama, were on vacation with their families. Mike and Peabody took such a liking to these girls that they actually went to visit them. Mike’s Dad rented a Dodge Colt for them to drive to Montgomery or Mobile or someplace like that, so they could once again see the girls they liked.

 

Like all stories Mike tells, there was more to the story like how there was a gas crisis and the girl’s father had to siphon gas out of his Cadillac so they could actually drive. No doubt, he gladly did this to get these boys away from his little Princess, but Mike argues that point insisting he, at least, was a perfect gentleman. There was also an offshoot about Peabody punching the hood of the rented Colt and Mike then punching Peabody because he knew his Dad was going to be pissed.

 

My first reaction to hearing this story for the 50^th time was to mock Mike for not only his silly little crush, but for still romanticizing it some 30 years later. Yes, I am that kind of wife. My husband patiently drives his irrationally angry and anxiety-ridden wife to the airport and she responds by ridiculing him. But, for some reason, on this particular trip down memory lane, I kept my mouth shut and instead of teasing him for being kind and lovingly human, I decided to be the same and share a story with him that I never shared before.

 

When I was 14 I went to Navarre Beach with a girlfriend and her family. They gave us remarkable freedom and we met a couple of boys one night on the beach. They boy I ended up talking to was a kid named Cal. He too was from Alabama and he was a nice boy. I was, looking back, a pretty young girl, but my self-esteem was somewhere near the floor and the fact that this boy was paying attention to me and was nice to me was mind boggling. When it was time to leave Florida, I was crushed. I wanted to exchange addresses and numbers with Cal so we could keep in touch, but he logically noted that we lived 2 states apart and would likely never see each other again.

 

Still, I was crushed. For the entire 5 hour car ride back to New Orleans, I quietly wept into my sweatshirt sleeve. No doubt the family I was with thought I was deranged or possessed, but they politely declined to comment on my weepiness. I just couldn’t stand that I had connected with this boy and was never going to see him again.

 

This next part gets a little weird. When I got back home I still could not stop thinking about this boy so I walked a ½ a mile to the pay phone at the Schwegmann’s Grocery Store, called information and got the phone number and address of Cal in Alabama. I can’t remember why I didn’t call. I suppose fear of verbal rejection or not enough quarters for a long distance call, but I did write him a letter. I am sure I tried to sound like it was the most normal thing in the world to stalk him from 2 states away before the invention of the internet and perhaps I even dotted the “i” in my name with a heart. The amazing this is that he actually wrote me back. I think this letter was something like a nervous, “wow, how did you find my address?” and “you are a nice girl, but…”

 

I had really forgotten about this incident and my inability to let go of this boy and how he made me feel. My heart healed quickly and no doubt I moved on to the next cute boy as young girls do, but telling the story again to Mike made me realize something about myself that I had forgotten. I like people. I like to hold the people I meet in my heart and keep them near. I don’t like to lose the people I meet. Over the years, as I have “matured,” I have learned to feign indifference about people I care about who either move away or don’t care as much about me. I have taken that heart I so carelessly wore on my sleeve and tucked it away. I have compartmentalized my emotions and learned the socially appropriate amount of care and concern I am supposed to show.

 

And, I have gotten so good at it that I almost made fun of my husband for not being indifferent. You see, if I had met my husband in Florida when I was 14, he would have rented a car and driven to see me. He would have given me his number and his address and been inappropriately expressive and possessive. He would have shown genuine interest in me and my feelings. He would have never forgotten me and would be telling stories about me 30 years later.

 

In my pained and pointed efforts to not seem like a clingy stalker, I almost forgot that sometimes, I just want to openly and honestly love my fellow human beings. I want to hug too long and cry when people move away. I want to put it all out there and not fear being mocked. I want to be like Mike. Or, at the very least, openly admire him for having the courage to do what I have forgotten how.