Is there a dot-Doc in the house?

Recently my doctor suggested that a diminishing number of my white blood cells might signal a more serious condition; after eliminating all the usual suspects, he referred me to an oncologist. I wonder if oncologists follow dentists on the list of most likely professionals to commit suicide. Is anyone happy to see the doctor who resides in the Cancer Center office?

Like every red-blood celled American, no sooner had I hung up the telephone than I jumped on Google to type in every word combination of low white blood cell and causes and symptoms and treatments. It’s a love-hate relationship I have with the Internet: on the one hand, I felt compelled to educate myself while on the other, with every keystroke, deeper and deeper I plunged into unhappy diagnoses. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, my fall was endless. One twist led only to another turn. Just when I would have eliminated, say, bone cancer, as my fate, due to the fact that none of the enumerated symptoms were mine—whew! That’s when I would discover the caveat “Some patients suffer no symptoms.” Click and double click; I was on to another web site in the ever-widening spider web of information.

Once I yielded to the suggestion that I might require a bone marrow aspiration, I was traveling through medical mazes that detailed that procedure until, after two days of immersion, I had actually reached the point where I thought I would choose to endure it, just to eliminate all possibility of what positive results would bring. How much worse than natural childbirth can this test be? That was my squeamish standard, as I scanned faster and faster until my eyes glazed over and I was barely conscious enough to push the “print” key.

For seven days, since it would take that long for the oncologist to be able to work me in, I disappeared into cyberspace. Each evening I would emerge from my computer- screen coma just long enough to eat dinner—whatever I had read would increase white blood cell count, be it cauliflower or pepita seeds. Every morning I would awaken to a cup of coffee and the sound of my MAC booting up in order to produce my medical school lesson for the day. No matter what distraction I set in place, as hard as I tried to break away and take a walk—even if I took out my knitting or worked on a story, I was putty in the hands of my laptop; compulsively, I clicked. In the end, reams of paper under my arm and a prayer on my breath, I exited the lab and entered the oncologist’s office with white blood cells to beat the band that day. There was a common-sense explanation for the miraculous result, and one I did not discover during my weeklong website woe.

Lesson learned: When everyone tells you not to go to the Internet until you’ve seen the doctor for a diagnosis, hearken to that advice.

Of course, my husband just got word he needs an ultrasound of his renal artery because despite medication intervention, his blood pressure remains high. A man of wisdom, he patiently awaits the results during the week it takes for his doctor to obtain them. But I am a woman of weakness: File; New Window; Google—“renal artery blood pressure.” Alice, I’m falling…