The book was "Hatchet" by Gary Paulsen. As harrowing a tale of wilderness survival as this nine-year-old would dare venture. And I read it with my mother. Like any good tale of modern-day survival, it starts with a plane crash, though this one doesn't lead to cannibalism. The pilot, however, does die. Which is actually how the plane crashes. The pilot clutches his left shoulder, gasping in pain. At the age of nine, I didn't understand what that meant. My mother replied that it was a heart attack, which is apparently something that happens when your heart just decides to stop pumping your blood.

I was horrified. For the next two years, I continuously - often discretely - checked my left shoulder to verify that I still had a pulse. Though I would later learn that this condition primarily struck middle-aged lardasses and old people, I was still exceedingly paranoid.

This my first memory in a continued neurosis that I am deeming "pseudohypochondria." (To my knowledge, I made the term up. Google only turns up one result and it's one among many words in a long string of meta keyword tags.) I have an aunt who's a hypochondriac. Quite possibly some other relatives, too; though the degrees of hypochondria vary. I am not a hypochondriac. However, whenever someone starts to describe a set of symptoms or a familiar disease, I am convinced I am suffering the very condition.

But I'm not entirely convinced. Though my mind is manufacturing the perceived symptoms, it also fully acknowledges that these "symptoms" are its own fabrications. When at work, a number of cases of mono turned up around the office and management was describing the warning signs, I felt every single one. My throat became dry and soar, a headache began to develop, etc. The entire time, I was telling myself "This is bullshit. You're making this up." It was. I was. But as long as it was on my mind, I felt sick.

Say the word "tetanus?" My jaw is hesitant to shut. "Lice?" I've got an itch on my scalp. "Cholesterol?" Am I getting circulation in my legs?

Pseudohypochondria pits my constant paranoia against my intellect, which knows better. This probably is applicable to most of my dilemmas. Or maybe it's not. Sometimes, I just can't tell.