Hypochondria
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By Kim Chi-young
As a fearful hypochondriac, I appreciate kind physicians who err on the side of over-explaining procedures.
I have fond memories of my American childhood dentist who would detail what each instrument would do in my mouth and reassure me that it wouldn’t hurt. His cubbies stuffed with toys and stickers helped, too.
Even now, my first question at the doctor’s is, “Is it going to hurt?” When I got an echocardiogram a few years ago, I asked about the potential for pain even after the technician explained that it would just be an ultrasound. I am also afraid of needles.
When I was giving birth, the mere sight of an IV line in my arm increased my blood pressure, so the nurse hid the needle under some masking tape. I also appreciate it when nurses give me updates as to how many more vials need to be filled, because I’m obviously not looking as my blood is drawn. My fearful brain relaxes when given too much information. This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows my dad; who else would I have learned this from?
This can become a problem when I’m in Korea, as many doctors tend not to say a word to their patients. When I was living in New York a decade ago on a meager salary and with terrible health insurance, it was actually cheaper to fly home to get my wisdom teeth removed.
I mentally prepared for that fateful event as though I were going into a warzone. I urged my mother to stock up on ice cream and soft foods. Although I was in my 20s, I forced my mother to come with me, because, I warned her, I might be in no condition to take the bus home by myself. What if I fainted? Or threw up? My mother rolled her eyes and came along.
We sat in the waiting room among college-aged girls; their faces were marked with Sharpie. They were there to get cosmetic surgery, to reshape their jaws. While I sat there, pale and sweating, they were smiling ecstatically. I was woozy at the mere thought of cutting the skin off your face to allow a saw to reduce the size of your jaw.
When my turn came, my mother nodded encouragingly and I walked into the other room. The dentist began jamming his fingers in my mouth without any explanation; even when they were taking X-rays of my teeth, all he told me was to stop moving around. He shoved instruments into my mouth and made me gag. Then he injected me with Novocain without any warning and clucked his tongue in disapproval when I jumped.
I guess I looked like a calf being dragged off to the slaughterhouse, because the nurse, who was probably no more than 18, offered to hold my hand. I’m sure she’s regretted that ever since; she probably no longer has any feeling in that limb. I came out limping and pale and on the verge of vomiting. My mother took one look at me and decided to hail a cab. It took me two full days to recover, sitting morosely on the couch, eating ice cream, and nearly fainting each time I changed out the cotton wad in my mouth.
Like any parent, I don’t want my fear to rub off on my daughter. But she already gets it. When I park the car in front of the doctor’s office, she starts yelling, “No! No go! Stay!” At her last well-baby visit three months ago, she took one look at the nurse who usually gives her shots and started screaming.
So when she was sick last month and I had to take her to the doctor, I explained what was going to happen, how Dr. Nikki would listen to her chest, look in her ears and her mouth, and say how patient she was being. I interspersed my monologue with lots of cheering. When we went in, my daughter did great. She obligingly opened her mouth, didn’t squirm when the doctor looked in her ears, and was calm when the doctor listened to her heart and lungs. Well, that was easy, I thought. All it takes is calm preparation.
So I was smug when my daughter got sick (again) this past week. Before we went to see the doctor, we practiced listening to her heart, looking in her ears, and peering into her mouth. All went smoothly. Except this time, they thought her high fever might be an indication of the flu or a urinary tract infection. They swabbed her nose.
My daughter was not happy about that. (“No! No! My nose!”) I made a mental note to add the nose swabbing to our routine. Then the nurse said she’d put a urine bag on the kid to run some tests; my daughter acted like her leg was being amputated. We’d have to add that to our preparatory play-acting. The nurse’s removal of the urine bag scared my toddler to such a degree that she began to vomit in copious amounts. I guess I shouldn’t have been so triumphant.
Chi-Young Kim is a literary translator based in Los Angeles. She has translated works by Shin Kyung-sook, Kim Young-ha, and Jo Kyung-ran. Contact her at chiyoung@chiyoungkim.com or via her website, chiyoungkim.com.