Doctor, Doctor Give me the News

When I was younger I was a self (or parent)-diagnosed hypochondriac. I used to complain about every cut, bruise, ache and pain on my body. Being a figure skater and having my knees and butt (those butt pads only did so much) permanently bruised, I must've given my parents an everlasting headache with all of the complaining that I did.

However, I would like to bring up the time I broke my arm. It was the last week of kindergarden and I was obviously playing an aggressive game of boys chase girls and I just happened to fall off the monkey bars. After telling my mom I hurt my arm, she just assumed it was another one of my hypochondriac moments and told me to "tough it out" (typical parent response). After three days (maybe even five) of dealing with my complaining, she finally took me to the doctor to get an x-ray only to find out that I really did have a broken arm. She's never going to live that one down.

Working with kids I now know what I put my family through. At the sight of a microscopic drop of blood, which could even easily be a red pen marking, my kids freak out and ask to go to the front desk to get a bandaid. It's amazing how bandaids (it's a bonus if it's Hello Kitty) can cure everything and make the pain, or lack there of, go away. I constantly hear, "Teacher, I'm hot/I have a headache/I hurt my :::insert body part here:::/my stomach hurts/no words, just throwing up motion (in this case I rush them to the bathroom)/etc. I've caught myself telling them to "tough it out" or "you'll be fine."

So after 20 something years of being a hypochondriac, I'm finally getting a dose of my own medicine.