After calling your mother to get her opinion on a particular ailment that has been developing at a somewhat alarming rate over the last several days, your mom, talking to you with her phone on her shoulder while she makes dinner for the rest of the family, tells you that she thinks you should keep an eye on it. She does not seem to think you are dying, and although you don’t exactly think you’re dying, you are also not entirely sure that she understands the potential gravity of your particular ailment. Once more you stress the details of what you have noticed either on the outside or inside of your body. You give so much detail that she is left only to reply “mhm” and “sure” for several minutes as you outline the nuanced and special way in which you believe yourself to be suffering. You decide to spare her how you thought you saw a black dog when you were catching a bus the other day, and how that’s exactly what happened to Harry Potter in the hit children’s series Harry Potter and no one believed him, either. You spare her this last detail, even though it’s really been the driving force of your worry, because you have given her a lot to ruminate over, after all. Your mom coughs, and even though you’re talking over the phone, you know, instinctively, that she is rolling her eyes at you. You hope that she’s going to tell you that you actually had an uncle who had the particular bump/headache/allergy that you believe yourself to have, or else recommend you to perform a variety of tasks to put an end to the ailment, because Lord knows you will take no action unless explicitly directed to do so.
At press time, your mother still thinks you should keep an eye on it, and to stop worrying so much. You’re doing fine.