My Dog is Chelsea

I got an email at work the other day that began something like this:

“Dear. Dr. Parisi,
Here is the [whatever you asked for], per your request.”

Apparently, proximity to doctors (I work in a hospital) actually turns you into one. Pretty neat, huh? I printed out the email, highlighted the Dr. part and hung it up on my wall. It may well be the only time I will ever be referred to as such in my life, so I might as well revel in my newfound glory.

Later, I filled out some sort of online registration schmanana that asked for my title. Thinking they meant job title, I supplied the name of my position. I then received the following automated email:

“Dear IRB Liaison Parisi,
Your account has been created.”

D’oh! Obviously they were asking for other title—my newly acquired doctorate that I don’t actually have. “IRB Liaison” just doesn’t have the same clout as “Dr.”

Anyway, speaking of doctors, I kinda think I should see mine but I don’t want to out of sheer embarrassment. You see, due to my Google diagnosing problem, I have called/seen him for a couple of odd things in the last few months and I’m afraid to go back.

First, in January, I called him because I’d gotten a tick bite while in San Francisco, and a quick Google search indicated that ticks in that region could maybe perhaps sometimes carry rocky mountain spotted fever. Now, mind you, the odds of me coming down with such a rare disease were about as high as me contracting polio, but nonetheless, I was concerned and I left him a message about it.

His assistant called me back the next day to inform me that it was highly unlikely that I had rocky mountain spotted fever, but that of course it is very difficult to assess anything without seeing the tick bite, or better, the actual tick, so I’d have to come in to the office to know for sure. I opted to risk it and go unseen—guess what? I lived.

A month later I decided to finally go see my doctor about my constant headaches. Given that a) Chelsea had a brain tumor b) my mother has a brain tumor and c) Google told me I had a brain tumor, I was pretty much convinced that I, too, had a brain tumor. This fear, it turned out, was misguided.

Then I went to my dentist for my first teeth cleaning in two years (I know, I know—I fear dental treatment, it’s no excuse but it’s true) to discover that I had SIX (!!!!) cavities and a lump under my tongue.

“It’s probably just a blocked salivary gland—but it could be oral cancer,” he told me. “You should probably go see an oral surgeon. Or, it might go away on its own.”

I’ve been waiting for it to go away on its own. It hasn’t. Not only that, after the dentist pointed it out, I remembered that I had once noticed the lump—months ago—and thought it a bit odd, and then promptly forgot about it. So it’s been there for some time.

Well, you know what happened next: I started Googling, which naturally led me to the conclusion that I was going to die.

The point is this: After resisting for about three weeks, I finally left my doctor a message this afternoon asking him what I should do about the mysterious lump in my mouth. Even after the rocky mountain spotted fever and the brain tumor scare. I mean, really! It’s truly embarrassing. I can’t even go an entire month without thinking I’ve contracted some sort of bizarre, unlikely illness.

In all, I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not actually a doctor, because I’d be horrible at it: “What’s that you say? Your pinky finger hurts? Hmm—okay, hang on one second, let me ask Google—yep, you’re dying. Sorry.”