Seriously Overthinking It...

I have come to the conclusion over the last few days that I am definitely a hypochondriac.

No, seriously.

I was always what you might call "germ-conscious." My mother loves to tell the story of how, when I was six years ago, I went through a phase where I wouldn't eat anything if I thought my fork (spoon, knife, etc) had touched the table, or if I saw a random "black speck" (my mother's words) in my food (pepper, anyone?). She blames it on my first grade teacher, who she says first introduced me to the concept of germs (my family never gave them much thought, apparently).

Whether my first grade teacher was indeed the person to introduce me to the concept of germs or not, as far back as I can remember I have indeed been fascinated with all things "disease." My favorite person growing up was Louis Pasteur (second only to Marie Curie). Louis Pasteur believed in germs--in fact, the actions he took on his beliefs made him famous (pasteurized milk, helping to disprove spontaneous generation, and that whole rabies vaccination thing). Anyway, my fascination has become somewhat of a sickness, I admit. I will read any article I can find on diseases, bacteria, viruses, etc. I think it's fascinating. Being a biology teacher, I have access to tons of research on germs (and it doesn't help that my students equate my biology degree with a medical degree--they are constantly shoving rashes, cuts, wierd bumps, etc, in my face with a "Mrs. G, do I need to be worried about this?" It's a little disconcerting...)

But I digress: back to my original claim of hypochondria: I believe I am now officially a hypochondriac and here's why--last week (last Wednesday around 4:30pm to be precise) a kitten that one of my students had brought in for a random "show and tell" scratched my hand. Not out of malice, mind you. The poor thing was starving to death because my student thought a six week old kitten could eat steak. I bought the cat some kitten food and milk, and when it smelled food, it went nuts! Anyway, it scratched me. No big deal, right?

To you.

I have spent the last seven days convincing myself that I did not contract rabies (thank you Louis Pasteur for giving me marginal hope of survival if I do ever contract it). Despite the fact that rabies is a pretty rare disease in developed countries. Despite the fact that it is even more rare in domestic animals, especially cats. Despite the fact that when you calculate the odds of contracting rabies from a SCRATCH and not a bite, it becomes even more rare... I have, over the past seven days, almost convinced myself that I was developing the beginning symptoms of rabies (headache, cough, fever, sore throat, all of which happen to be common cold weather symptoms in general) and was consigned to dying a miserable and painful death after a failed vaccine treatment (that would fail because I had neglected to start said treatment immediately after the scratch as recommended by health officials). I was seriously close to convincing myself that I was indeed developing rabies when I suddenly considered one oh-so-crucial fact: the kitten, which belongs to my student, does not have rabies.

In fact, the kitten is doing quite well and being very kittenish--sleeping all day, purring profusely, and generally being a huge ball of cute.

Did you read that the sentence before last? The dang cat, which I convinced myself had given my a deadly, nearly always fatal without prompt treatment, virus, is in fact rabies free. As in, I'm pretty sure my student would have noticed if his kitten was developing unusual symptoms. And all things considered, if the cat was infected, my student probably is too by this point. And HE'S not displaying any alarming symptoms, either.

At this juncture, I considered two things: I am either a moron, or I am a hypochondriac. I went with the latter.

Hypochondria here I come! And for some reason, admitting that I always think I'm sick makes me feel much better. Now I know not to take myself seriously.