I Spent Thanksgiving Thinking I Was Mortally Ill

But I cooked one hell of a meal, anyway.

The Thanksgiving holiday did not overfloweth with family this year. It was just my me, my husband and our three adored felines.

Normally, we spend Thanksgiving at my sister’s, but this year, an invite from her in-laws quashed that. My sister, being the caring person she is, felt bad about this, but I assured her that it was okay. “Go. Have fun! Don’t worry about us.”

Any other time, being on our own wouldn’t be an issue, but this year was different as two days before the holiday I had a “contrast” CT-scan on my abdomen and pelvic region. The scan was ordered after I had an X-ray to get to the bottom of some gastro-intestinal issues I’ve been experiencing.

The X-ray showed that my spleen could “possibly” be enlarged, hence the order for a deeper look. When I finally worked up the nerve to make the appointment, I learned I was to chug two big bottles of vanilla-flavored Barium before the scan and have dye via an IV light up my insides during the actual test.

As you might have gleaned from other stories I’ve written, anything medical sends my already hyper-anxious nature into full-blown attack mode. After having breast cancer nearly five years ago, every twinge, every ache, every pain, no matter how minor, scares the living shit out of me.

My husband was worried that not going to my sister’s for the day would eliminate the distraction I needed in order to not obsess over the results, which I was to receive within forty-eight hours.

It wouldn’t have mattered. I could have been standing at the foot of the Eiffel Tower without ever really seeing it. That’s how focused I was on my health, or what I thought was my lack of it.

My neurosis is so deep that after the aforementioned X-ray, I made my sister check out MyChart for the results. The thought of actually logging in and seeing them for myself, set my hands to shaking. I Just. Couldn’t. Do. It.

Both my husband and sister are worried that my constant fear and obsession over getting sick will actually make me sick. And it’s possible. If you read my recent story about inflammation, you’ll understand why.

Sometimes, the mind will do what the mind wants. And if the mind wants to fuck up your body, it will.

As scared as I was, I was also determined to not ruin the day for my husband. So I did my crying and hand-wringing in private, behind closed doors. And then I cooked my ass off.

We had the whole shebang: Turkey, old-fashioned bread stuffing, mashed rutabagas (my husband’s responsibility), cranberry sauce — all of it. And everything was delicious. I didn’t screw up a thing. No cooking drunk this time, by God!

As I cooked and tidied up the house, my brain was on overdrive, thinking of every organ that could be blighted. Ovaries! (Cancer.) Liver! (Cancer.) Spleen! (Cancer, along with immediate removal via an emergency trip to the hospital.) You name it, I thought I had it.

No one has to tell me that this is a terrible head space to be in. It’s agonizing, actually. I’ve never sought professional help for this particular affliction, but I’m considering it, as I don’t want to live the rest of my life in constant fear that I’m going to keel over from…something.

My sister tells me that my constant gastro issues are probably due to my diet, which consists of coffee in the morning loaded with protein powder, collagen powder, sometimes gelatin, you get the idea. All of that alone could probably make a buffalo keel over from gas.

And then I don’t eat for hours. Maybe a hard-boiled egg later in the afternoon, but that’s about it, until dinner. So, perhaps I need to make some adjustments to what I’m putting into my body. Or not putting in. I thought I adapted “healthy habits.” Now, I wonder.

But — isn’t intermittent fasting a thing, now? Who can keep this crap straight?

Thankfully, by the time lights out rolled around Thanksgiving night, I was wiped out. The cooking, the wine, the Xanax — everything combined, resulted in my brain shutting down like a noisy exhaust fan. Whoosh! Gone.

Yesterday morning was a different story. I woke up with a bit of a headache from being “over served,” and, while I wanted to get out of bed and start my usual day-after-Thanksgiving routine, which is to put all the fall stuff away in preparation for Christmas, all I could do was huddle under the comforter and stare at the ceiling.

MyChart loomed in my head. What would it say? That further testing was necessary? An MRI, perhaps? Oh, hell no. An endoscopy? Sigmoidoscopy? In other words, a look up my ass?

Finally, after reviewing every possible scenario in my overworked brain, I forced myself out of bed, had my coffee and then jumped on the stationary bike in front of one of our two TVs in the basement.

I channel surfed for a bit and then turned on a food show on Netflix that I’d been binge-watching. I don’t think I saw two minutes of it.

As I furiously peddled away, all I could think about was…me. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to admit that. Truly, I am. Although I did think about my husband and our three cats, what would happen to them if something “happened” to me.

I peddled and cried. Cried and peddled. Who does this? Me, that’s who. Then I paused for a few seconds and texted my sister, who was at work. I told her I was having a full-blown panic attack.

She immediately called me and tried to talk me off the ledge. I knew I was losing it when her own voice started to tremble. That’s how worried about me she was.

My sister didn’t think the results would be available so soon since it was a holiday, but I thought differently. I knew they were in “there,” lurking…waiting for me to view them, one hand over my bloodshot eyes.

Enough talk. My sister said she’d log into MyChart with my username and password, check things out and call me right back.

The two minutes it took her to get back to me felt like two hours. I wrung my hands, held my breath and finally, my phone went off. Before I could get a word out, my sister said, “You’re fine.”

I blurted out a tremulous “Really?” And she told me that, aside from a couple of cysts here and there that “didn’t require intervention,” the scan was “unremarkable.”

I never thought I’d be thrilled to be referred to as “unremarkable,” but thrilled and ecstatic I was. I felt reborn.

I want to take a break here to stress something: I may be neurotic, but I’m not a hypochondriac. The discomfort I’ve been feeling is real, but that said, I’m more apt to believe that it stems from a pulled muscle due to an over-zealous workout and/or diet, than anything related to my organs.

Wow. It was like night turned into day. I couldn’t wait to get going on my post-Thanksgiving duties. My sister, though, brought me back to reality by stressing the need for my seeking some type of intervention for my neurosis. And she’s right. I need to get this in check. Pronto.

Meanwhile, though, I am filled with gratitude. For my husband, our cats, for my sister and her family…for life. In fact, I believe I’ll start that gratitude journal that everyone’s been yapping about. It certainly can’t hurt.

And when my physical comes up in December, followed by my mammogram in February, I’ll stay focused and positive, because I’m fierce, and stronger than I give myself credit for.

Something else I’m grateful for: My readers. Thank you, for your support. Cheers, all. Stay well.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

I hope you enjoyed this. If so, please take a look at the following: