The aneurysm I don’t have is going to kill me
After I yelp “Owwwwww” I sit on a storage box pressing my hands hard on my forehead. I’m trying to stop the mass hemorrhaging after ramming my head on the corner of the wall in the storage room. I’m going to die very shortly of an aneurysm. The stars still hadn’t stopped and Joe (my fiancé at the time), still hadn’t made the saunter from the living room to see if I was OK.
But I already know I have a death sentence.
Two days later I’ll be cooking dinner, and get dizzy, fall to the ground and die. Our dog, Rosa Barks, will start humping my leg. Joe will come home, drop to the ground and frantically take my pulse. He’ll shake his head and say: “Well, she was right. She always said she was going to die from an aneurysm.”
Joe comes and asks me to remove my hand from my forehead. I’m petrified there’s a giant gash (though my hand doesn’t feel wet at all). I slowly move my hands away and look at him with hopeful eyes. He laughs and says “Oh my god, you’re totally fine.” “NO I’M NOT!” I cry and stomp to the bedroom.
I lay on the bed, my mind racing about the inevitable aneurysm. Joe brings me an ice pack. “If I pass out in the next few days, or at any point in life, be sure to tell the paramedics about this,” I tell him. “They’ll then know to check for something in my brain.” He laughs. He thinks I’m being silly and cute. But I’m dead serious.
My mom once told me my uncle hit his head on the car door and then months later, boom! Aneurysm. Proof enough for me that I’m next. When I was about five years old and biking down the hill, going way too fast, I fell flat on my face in a driveway. In my early 30s, my boyfriend and I were fighting and I stormed out of the bedroom, a little boozy, and my yelling was abruptly interrupted by the corner of a wall. That time I did split my forehead open. This is the third time. Three times a charm. There’s definitely a small embolism forming in my brain.
After Joe gets tired of listening to me and assuring me I’m fine, he leaves the room. I text my Dad. He has health anxiety like me so I know he’ll enable me.
Me: I’ve just rammed my head into the corner of a wall. I have a bump. And I hit the same spot years ago. Now I can’t stop thinking that I’ll have an aneurysm. And I have anxiety. And I’m afraid to go to the gym and workout because I’ll over exert myself and the aneurysm will erupt.
Dad: Was it on the front and did you see stars or get sick or blackout? If not you should be OK. Aneurysms usually are not from bumps. It’s a vascular thing.
Me: It was on the front and it made me go black for a second. I got so anxious I had to go poo.
Dad: U should be OK but if it temporarily made U go black I might suggest check it out.
Me: It might have just been the shock of hitting it so hard. It was a split second.
Dad: The anxiety would make you more worrisome so in order to stop the anxiety go get checked, yes?
Me: No. I need to be OK with not knowing. I feel fine.
I go to the gym and turns out, the aneurysm doesn’t erupt. Unconvinced, I text my best friend. She doesn’t respond, so I Google “I hit my head on a corner of the wall” and see that lots of people are worried about this. Most say “If you didn’t get nauseous then it’s OK.” I delete the browsing history.
In the days that follow I wait for the sulphur smells, nausea and headaches. My dad once told me that aneurysm survivors smell rotten eggs before passing out. Do I smell rotten eggs? Or did Rosa Barks fart again?
The bump has subsided and I have a yellow/greenish bruise. Maybe I don’t have an aneurysm (she writes with hesitation). Yet.
NOTE: This story by no means is meant to minimize the experiences (or death) of people who have had an aneurysm. Its intent is to use light humour to illustrate the very real thoughts, behaviours and anxieties that take over (for me) when I experience a health concern. Bumping or hitting my head often causes me great anxiety.
