Doctor Google is not always right

Oh isn’t the internet a marvellous thing? You basically do not need to leave the house anymore, if you don’t want to, which is completely unhealthy by the way. You can shop, pay your bills, earn an income, be entertained, be outraged, be inspired and be appalled.

BUT, it can also make you paranoid because you know too much.

Remember when you were a kid and say, you might get a strange rash on your foot, and your mum might have a quick glance at it, and despite its’ toxicity, whack some red Mercurochrome on it and let it be. You might be taken to the doctor if it looks like you might lose a toe, but there was no high drama like there would be these days.

I come from a long line of natural over-reactors and it is only made worse by the immense amount of information at my fingertips. Like one time years ago, I started getting a tingling sensation up and down my arm. I googled the symptoms only to discover I was in the initial throws of having a stroke. I couldn’t raise Mr Woog, for he was in a meeting. With my mortality on the line, I did what any over-reactor would do.

I called an ambulance.

I followed their instructions, left the front door opened and lay on the couch, waiting for death to take me, hopefully quickly.

The ambulance crew arrived and checked me out, put me on a monitor and did some tests. Turned out, I wasn’t having a stroke. I was having a fucking panic attack! That was so embarrassing…

I try not to google symptoms anymore.

But anyway, you would have thought I would have learnt my lesson but no. On Monday, I was doing Huffy Puffy with the unenthusiastic and while I bitch and moan about it, I know it is grand for many reasons, mainly my mental health. And I say if I am going to do it, I am going to do it RIGHT. So there I was, whizzing through the circuit. I had to do 20 crunches, rest and then do twenty of those moves (do not know technical term) where you are laying down and writhe around a bit crossing arms to opposite knees…. you know. That one. So I motor through the crunches and go straight onto the next set because I just wanted to get it over with.

Once I finished I collapsed. Staring at the sky, I started having a really painful sharp pain under my left boob. It fucking burned with each breath. It was like I was being stabbed.

It wasn’t going away. It was getting worse.

“I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK!” I announced to the girls.

Now, everyone knows about Mrs Goodman, my neighbour who is pretty much brilliant at everything she turns her hand to. And her hands are magical as she used to be a remedial sports therapist. I mean the woman got paid to touch Wallaby players!

“Nonsense.” she told me before she asked me to lay on my stomach and manipulated my back.

CRACK CRACK CRACK!

Turned out I wasn’t ready to meet my maker, I just pulled a rib out if place and she needed to put it back. Immedialty my breathing was pain free and I thanked her for being such a calm, useful person in my life. My talking doctor, Dr Susan, has also been helpful in the past, telling me that the world is not out to get me, and that I needed to stop and “examine the evidence…” Wish I had a buck every time she says this to me….

And so in conclusion, I ask you to not jump to the worst one. Practice being rational. It will save a lot of embarrassment.

Have you ever consulted Doctor Google?