I Went Down A WebMD Rabbit Hole Last Night

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It started out simple enough. My head hurt, and I had about fifteen minutes before I needed to call an Uber to go to a lame bar and unwillingly spend half of the money I earned this week on watered down shots and regret. The worst part? There was no excuse in sight of how to get out of the situation. It’s not that I didn’t want to go. Well, I mean, yeah. That’s the truth. But it’s more than that. It was a Friday. I had a long week. I didn’t know half the people we were meeting up with. And honestly? The thought of throwing on my dragon onesie, curling up on my shitty Rooms To Go couch, and watching Netflix until I passed out sounded infinitely more appealing than making small talk, downing vodka soda after vodka soda, and ending the night in tears.

So, as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, willing myself to come up with an excuse that would get me out of my own personal hell, I sent a casual wish to anyone listening up above.

“I wish I was sick.”

And so, for shits and giggles, I pulled out the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, popped it in my mouth, and headed into the closet to look for my favorite pair of thigh high boots (because the winter 2018 look for any and all white girls was, of course, the over-the-knee boots, jeans, and a leather jacket).

Just as I located them, hiding behind the growing pile of clothes I’m supposed to hand wash, the stick hanging out of my mouth started beeping. I pulled it out (hi-oh), held it at arm’s length, and squinted in the semi-darkness.

99.2°

I stared at it for a moment, confused as to what I was seeing. You see, I’m normally a 96.8° kind of girl. I know that’s low, but that’s just how this body rolls. So, my temperature of 99.2° was actually somewhat shocking. Now, I’m not sure if that meant I had a really bad fever or what, but it didn’t matter. I was over the 98.6° average threshold, so my prayers had been answered. I had my excuse.

I told my friends that I had a fever, they talked a lot of shit, and I spent the rest of the evening in pure, lazy bliss.

After that night, I didn’t think much of my illness. I mean, I didn’t feel bad. Blood wasn’t oozing out of my ears, as normally happens in movies when someone is dying. I was fine. So, I carried on and didn’t think twice about it.

Until, that is, three nights ago. A solid two weeks after my fever incident. I was lounging around the house, pretending to clean up but in reality was just pacing and overthinking, when I saw the thermometer on my bedside table. In the panic of being devastatingly ill, I must have forgotten to put it back. So, without thinking, I popped it in my mouth.

“Just to reconfirm my baseline temperature,” I told myself, as I watched the numbers climb.

This time, however, I wasn’t exactly pleased as the degrees went from 98.8° to 98.9° to 99.0° before settling on 99.1°. I had a fever? Again? But why? What was wrong with me? The panic slowly crept over my body as I shakily fell onto the bed. Why was I sick again? Was my body fighting off an infection? Was I just eating too many jalapaños? Did jalapaños cause your body temperature to rise? Right about then is when it dawned on me: What if I had been sick this whole time?

And that, my friends, is when the research started. Now, as someone with pretty bad anxiety, one of the first things I unnecessarily do in a panic, is I research. I research hard. I scour the internet for answers, facts, and other people who have been in my situation, whether it’s an illness, a family problem, or not being able to decide which fad diet I should try next. Reseach is always my answer. And, of course, research is always my curse.

So, naturally, my first step was to check up on my main symptom: the low-grade fever.

“It’ll be fine,” I assured myself, as I clicked along the search results. What I really wanted was for someone to say it was normal. No big deal. That people had (potentially) lingering low-grade fevers all the time, and it always ended up being nothing.

But, unfortunately for us, that’s never how it goes when we research our ailments. You don’t get results that say, “calm down, bitch. You’re fine.” Instead, they say things like “common cold,” “flu,” or *gulp* “cancer.”

I stared at the last option as my blood turned cold. Cancer? I had cancer? Now, I know that thing about cancer is that it’s not picky. It’ll grab onto anyone. It doesn’t matter if you’re a good person (not the case) or a bad person (that’s more my speed). Cancer just slithers into normal people’s lives and wreaks absolute havoc. Still, like most horrible things, I never thought it would happen to me. I never thought it would slither into my life and wreak havoc on my world.

Now, before I continue, I don’t want you to think I’m totally crazy. I didn’t just see cancer and immediately say “that’s me!” I did just about the worst thing you can do when you’re both very anxious and researching what’s wrong with you: I kept digging. I looked up other cancer symptoms too.

• Was I tired? Shit. I’m always tired.
• Did my muscles ache? What muscles?
• Did I have stomach pain? Did getting an upset stomach in the evenings count? I was just chocking that up to the fact that I was eating fruits and veggies for the first time in 26 years, but I guess it’s actually something more serious…

The lists went on and on and on and on. And for each and every symptom, I had a way of making it fit for me. So, for the past three days, I have been taking my temperature constantly, scouring WebMD, and trying home remedies to rid my body of this disease. I have become my own science experiment. I had become my own charity case. At this point, I’ve almost come to terms with the fact that my life might potentially be over. It’s been hard, but honestly? I just want to move forward. I just want to get better. I just want to be a normal girl living a normal life.

So, I made a frantic doctor’s appointment for today. I explained my situation and asked for a whole range of lab work to be done. It doesn’t even matter that I pass out every time I get blood drawn. Considering what I’m about to face, I probably need to get used to needles. Because the truth is, what I really want to do is just start down the long road to recovery.

And the first step, of course, after my hasty self-diagnose, it to start treatment. I hope we can get to it as soon as possible. I have a lot to live for. I got a new plant. I found a pint of Halo Top at Whole Foods that I haven’t tried yet. And I just started rewatching The Office for the sixth time. I’m not ready to go yet.

Wish me luck today as I face the doctors and my demons. I need strength now, more than ever. And while I know it’s going to be rough to receive the news (even though I already know the truth), it’s the only way I can truly carry on and begin to heal. Well, that, or they’ll just up my Prozac dosage. Tbd..

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Rachel Varina

if it doesn't have snack or seats, i'm not there. hate mail/Sunny references can be sent to itsrachelvarina@gmail.com

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