Elise column reflects on injuries, illnesses and other things drawn to her

So maybe I am just a bit concerned about health issues. They seem to appear with no warning to some of us undeserving souls. Perhaps that is because I am kind of person the poltergeists love to torment.

There is even an unflattering name for us, one that gives me a migraine just hearing it. After all, no one wants to be associated with Baron Von Munchausen.

I’ll never forget the afternoon – I must have been 5 years old – that I was happily rocking back and forth in a straight-backed kitchen chair, the kind expressly not suited for rocking.

I was waiting for mom to make me a sandwich when, without the slightest consideration, the chair decided it was tired of the monotonous game and gave notice by tipping me all the way back.

At that time, my family was living in one of the old houses in Delaware that used steel radiators for heat. Back slammed my head against the radiator. I knew from the sticky stuff dripping on my St. Ambrosia of Perpetual Unease uniform that I had really hurt myself, even more than when our cat, Susie, tried to claw my eyes out. (By the way, she succeeded only to scratch my eyelid. I dodged that injury; I could see her intention.)

For some reason, mom did not understand how gravely I was injured by the radiator incident. When I ran outside screaming, “I hurt my head!” she tsk tsked and assured me I would be OK in a minute or two. It was only when she patted my head absently in an attempt to hush me up that she realized that stitches, not just kisses, would be needed.

From that incident on, injury came frequently, and was inexplicably greeted with skepticism by some to whom I described the problem: i.e., my parents.

There was a time in middle school when I was positive I had a brain tumor. Granted, the symptoms arose the day before a geometry final, but that was just a coincidence. I guess I was lucky to be in remission in time to take the test.

Heathens that they were, my parents did not believe my miraculous healing. They reminded me of the story of the boy who cried wolf, but I did not understand how that had anything to do with me. The wolf boy was lying, or at least exaggerating. The only thing I could deduce was that my parents had missed the point of the fairy tale. Plus, they knew I had never seen a wolf.

As I grew older, I became more and more susceptible to ailments and more aware that some folks would be clueless. For instance, no one in college understood why I audited anatomy classes for fun while they attended painting or fencing classes. I soon became familiar with terms like “frontal fibrosing alopecia” as problems I would have to confront in the future, beyond the spelling and pronunciation.

While my friends were choosing a major and becoming well-versed in their fields, I was becoming a Talmudic scholar of the Merck manual.

I think my downfall arrived when I signed up to join the Peace Corps and headed to South Korea after university. Though I was thrilled at the prospect of going to a far-away, then-exotic country, I was not very excited about all the foreign diseases people contracted overseas. I knew if there was an interesting ailment, it would be drawn to me like an old friend at an out-of-town convention. Of course, we were given all kinds of shots to ward off everything from cholera to rabies (and I was first in line for those injections), but I still felt vulnerable.

Particularly frightening were the maladies where tiny organisms were involved. Just the thought of another living being crawling around in my body was wretched enough for me carry a bottle of Pepto Bismol everywhere we went. Sure enough, who do you think was the first in my Peace Corps group to come down with what was later diagnosed as “amoebic dysentery” after the initial diagnosis? How could I be wasting away from what the charlatan doctor called “common diarrhea?” If it was so common, why didn’t other Peace Corps volunteers contract it? Word spread quickly throughout the amoeba community that a gracious host had arrived in country, and it wasn’t long before I had entertained the entire crowd: mites, worms, parasites, Rosicrucians, Amway sales people, you name it.

I don’t think my system ever fully recovered from that two-year stint overseas. Pretty soon, I started noticing seasonal changes by the various conditions each generated. In the fall and winter, there were pollen attacks and influenza respectively, while summer was distinguished by prickly heat, swimmer’s shoulder and a desire to sell cleaning products door-to-door.

For many people, “spring fever” meant the longing to be in love. For me, it usually meant a high temperature from a bee sting.

If there was a positive side to all this susceptibility, it was that I could use my health issues to discourage would-be suitors. Instead of the old standbys, “I have to balance my checkbook” or “My Auntie Flo is in town,” I had at my command brilliantly believable lines like “My divergent strabismus is acting up again, or “Yesterday, the doctor told me I have Dengue fever.”

Never mind that Dengue fever can only be found in tropical countries, or that someone with divergent strabismus probably wouldn’t get asked for a date anytime soon.

While it’s true that maladies like smallpox and polio are now under control, a whole host of newish conditions have arisen. There was always the possibility of a monthly disaster for young women. Remember Toxic Shock Syndrome?

Now we can’t even blow dry our hair without at least wondering what noxious chemicals are being released in the warm air.

A long time ago, I realized that the man I married must understand perfectly reasonable actions like turning off the air conditioner to avoid a potential onslaught of Legionnaire’s disease, and he must not jeer at the amount of cranberry juice I drink to avert a chronic bladder infection.

Most of all, he must take his wedding vow of “in sickness and in health” very seriously. Only then would I even consider spending my life with him.

There is a lot more to think about here, but it is 4 p.m. Time to take another Omeprazole.

This article originally appeared on Amarillo Globe-News: Elise commentary: In sickness and in health