The Information Age
Need a plane ticket by tomorrow from Newark to Mexico? Do it over a cup of coffee at your kitchen table. Curious about how to spell disappointment? (I always put in an extra "s".) No need for a dictionary anymore. Talk face to face with someone in Denmark, flip through photos from your cousins wedding, apply for jobs and colleges and find a good recipe for dinner all from one small, glaring screen. I'm on the internet all the time. I'm on it now. But there are times when it's not necessary or helpful. This moment in my life is one of them.
I am 36 weeks pregnant. Which means I walk like a grandma with a hip replacement. I won't consider putting anything on my body that doesn't have a draw string. Night time is no longer for sleeping. And, something new to add to the list, is I am covered in an uncomfortable, hive-like rash known as PUPPP's that, oh, only about 1 percent of women in their third trimester contract. Do you know how I know that? I am the solitary reason WebMD's traffic went up 35 percent in the last two days. Even after my lovingly abiding and helpful friend Sarah (who's an excellent OB, by the way) told me what this heinously itchy rash most likely was, assured me she had a prescription that would aid in the soreness and itch if not eradicate it entirely, and that it would not harm the baby in any way- I STILL looked it up, read all the horrifying testimonials from people who seem to thrive on frightening readers, researched side affects of the medication on both mother and child and officially scared myself into such a meltdown that only perpetuated my growing hives that must be from my now, failing liver; according to some midwestern not-yet-a-midwife's blog that is highly credible, I'm sure. And perhaps gave me shortness of breath. Causing me to Google "developing asthma in the third trimester". I must be stopped.
There are some things I've always had to learn the hard way- relinquishing control and trusting seem to be my cross to bear. I am not a doctor. I am not master of the universe. I am, clearly, not God. But I try to convince myself that I am at least one, if not all three when I take matters into my own hands. Do I ever try. The access to all of this information only furthers this illusion.
So, here's my pledge. I have stalked my last self-diagnosing website. I've read my last thread full of disgruntled, lonely Mommies who need only a platform, some sympathy and to go out for coffee with a real, live friend-in person. You know why? It's not going to make my rash go away. It's not going to make Ellie get here any faster. It just adds more fuel to my imagination fire and, goodness knows, my imagination doesn't need any help. I'm retiring from Google- or, at least, taking a sabbatical, and leaving the care and diagnosing to people who actually know what they're talking about. Don't believe me? Stop by and visit for a cup of tea and ask to view the history on my laptop. Please. I may need a little help with this endeavor. Do you think one last search on "Paranoid O.C.D." would be acceptable? No? Ok. See what I mean?