When I was growing up, both my parents worked during the day, so for most of the week my grandparents took me in. In many ways, they raised me. They are some of the most loving people I have ever met - kind, sweet, funny and crazy. My kind of people. I call them Pop and Gog (apparently I didn’t have the ability to pronounce “grandma” as a child, so that was my next best attempt - it stuck), and I am lucky to have such a strong relationship with them.
Gog has always been a little neurotic. Okay, maybe more than a little. To this day, I’ll get comments like, “What’s that bump on your neck?” and “You should probably go to the doctor.” But I know it always comes from a place of love and concern for her flock. See, my dad got Hodgkin’s Lymphoma when he was 16 years old. He was set to be a college sports all-star and got cut down in his prime. He luckily survived (hello, world!), but the pain and trauma from that sent ripples into the future of my family. Many years later, Gog got Hodgkin’s Lymphoma herself… she also survived. Needless to say, we’ve been through some shit, but who hasn’t. And it makes sense to me that there would be some neuroticism in the mix after all of these near-death experiences. Somewhere along the way, I think I picked up a little of that neuroticism. Okay, maybe more than a little.
For me, it started slowly. I can’t remember exactly when I started to feel the fear, but it must have been sometime when I was a child. I watched Gog go through chemo, and over the years I learned about my father’s story and what his experience with Hodgkin’s did to him. All the right parts were there for me to start asking questions. To start asking, “Why?” That didn’t lead to the best answers. By the time I got to college, life started to seem like a series of completely random events waiting to destroy me at any moment. A pain in my stomach? Maybe it’s intestinal cancer. A lymph node that’s a little too large? Hodgkin’s is back for more. Any little thing that was wrong with me became a potential death sentence. A few years of that will drive a man crazy, and that’s exactly what it did to me.
I can’t remember how many trips I’ve made to the hospital, only to be sent home with a fine bill of health. I’ve convinced myself I’ve had all kinds of cancer, ALS, MS, AIDS - you name it, I’ve “had” it. Not only is that a nightmare to live through, it also does no justice to those who actually suffer from these illnesses. The thing is, I was completely powerless over my thoughts. Hypochondria is a stepchild of OCD, and it was like every bump and bruise on my body was a Trojan Horse - once an idea snuck it’s way into my mind, it was already over. I’ve spent more hours on Web MD than Gen Z’ers spend on video games. Eventually, I had a mental breakdown that led to a temporary stint with Lexapro. There was nothing I could do, and that was the whole problem: lack of control.
I couldn’t understand why some people got sick. Why some people survived and some didn’t. I couldn’t understand how a man could be walking through life one moment invincible, the next dead. The only answer I had at the time was to live in fear. To seek reassurance. To go to the doctor and have him tell me everything was fine. Only then could I breathe, and even that didn’t last long. I was stuck in the negative feedback loop of perpetual fear, and I had no way out. That is, until I got sober. Until I started to re-read some of the old books on my shelf collecting dust - Lao Tzu, Jesus Christ, C.S. Lewis, Erich Fromm, etc. It turns out they had a lot to say about fear.
Life is big. No, it’s huge. No, it’s so astronomically gigantic that words can’t describe it’s magnitude. And 99.99% of it I can’t control. That’s just how it works. I can’t control when the sun comes up. I can’t stop a wave from breaking. I can’t make someone love me. And I sure as hell can’t prevent myself or others from getting sick. It’s just the way things go, the yin and yang of the Dao - without sickness there would be no health. The more I try to control anything that’s out of my power, the more inevitable pain it brings me. I’ve had to learn that lesson over and over, but I think it’s starting to get in. There’s no point on focusing on what I can’t control, but there’s still so much in my small slice of life that I can. So why not focus on that? Once I started to see this new reality, everything started to change.
Hypochondria isn’t a curse. It turns out it’s one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given. Yea, I may die of some horrible illness one day, but I can’t control that today. So what can I control? For starters, my body. I can honor it in every way I can - from the way I eat to the way I use it. And I do, every day of my life. I can also control my thoughts - not necessarily what thoughts come up, but rather how I perceive them. I used to lay awake at night with heart palpitations thinking, “This is it.” That still happens, but instead of being afraid, I say a prayer. “God, if tonight is the night, I’m ready.” And most nights, I mean it. I’m grateful. I’m grateful to be alive, to feel love, to be able to sing and write, to be able to cry and mourn. I’m grateful for it all. Just for today. This shift in perspective grants me the serenity to live a life without chains. Not without fear, but with a whole lot less of it. And I have to thank my hypochondria for giving me a crash course in this kind of radical acceptance.
There’s so much I can’t control. But now I’m starting to see how that’s for the better. Most what fate has in store for me is much better than anything I could imagine for myself. Remember how my dad got cancer when he was 16? He was supposed to go off and become a sports star, but instead he stayed home and continued to see his high school girlfriend. After his chemo he was never supposed to be able to have children, but within a few years, I was born. A real-life miracle. If it weren’t for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, none of this would have happened. No me. No miracle.
Maybe it’s not so scary after all.
God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.