I am a catastrophizer, which, believe me, is not fun. I’ve always been a pro at scaring myself. I’m not a hypochondriac — I don’t make up an illness — but once I have something, I really have something. Then I blow it up into IMAX size.
Decades ago, when I had stomach surgery for a twisted colon, and the doctor warned that if I did not have emergency surgery, I’d be dead in 11 hours or about the time it takes to walk from my home in Los Angeles to the closest mailbox, I was uncharacteristically relaxed with this information. Because I really had something big. It’s when I have a hangnail or twitch that I think the end is near.
If I get stuck in an elevator, I fear that the air will be cut off, and I will choke to death and be found lifeless on the cold floor. If it’s not too many floors, I’ll walk up. Otherwise, if I must ride, I try to keep gum or water on hand to prevent choking to death.
When I have a bad cold and get slightly short of breath, I am convinced it is a pulmonary emphysema, and I might need a lung transplant.
I once had a bump on my tongue and knew for sure it was mouth cancer, and within seconds, I flashed to my funeral. Thank God there was a big crowd to say au revoir; if not, it would have been really depressing.
I’ve pictured myself in a hospital bed, strapped down, screaming in agony. In this vision, I had no known illness to speak of. I was just in horrendous pain, screaming like a banshee. I was screaming so loud that my own family stopped visiting me.
On a recent trip to Israel, I noticed a bright red rash on both my thighs and the backs of my knees. I immediately sent photos to my doctor in Los Angeles. He said it was hard to tell from the photos exactly what it was, but he told me to put on cortisone and an itch cream. The fact that he immediately did not know what it was alarmed me.
When I showed the rash to my wife, she asked what I thought it was (after 35 years of marriage, she should know better than to ask me to diagnose myself). I told her I was sure it was a flesh-eating bacterium.
All headaches are aneurysms. Eye pain is always a sign of a torn retina or a tumor behind my eye, which can lead to total blindness. I once took it as far as asking a blind person what his seeing-eye dog cost and where I could get the best deal on one if need be.
God forbid, a family member or friend is ill, I’ll try to calm them, but deep down, I know they will not recover.
Now at 73, dying in my sleep is a nightly mind dance. As I drift off, I wonder if tonight will be the big drift-off? Or in the morning, when I wake, will I find my wife dead when I ask her if she slept well? It’s not uncommon for me to stare at family members napping and wonder if they are still alive.
Luckily, I have found a way to deal with this, and it’s not by talking to my family. They mean well but are of zero help. When I stare in the mirror at the bump on my tongue, I can’t be convinced by them or even a doctor that it’s nothing. Instead, I have a group of friends who, like me, also think insane thoughts. When I notice a freckle on my leg, and I think I’ll need my leg amputated, my catastrophizer friends tell me they’ve had similar thoughts. Then we laugh at our stupidity.
The truth is, it’s about not feeling alone and out of control. When someone tells me I will be alright, I feel more alone. I need to know others who think just like me. One time, I did hear about a friend who had their leg amputated, and I could not sleep or relax until I found out it was from a car accident, not from a freckle.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
