Member-only story
My Uncle Jack was always certain he was sick. My parents used to make light of it. They even remembered when it started. Like my Dad, my Uncle Jack (Dad’s bestie) was a Vietnam veteran. They’d both served multiple combat tours and were both highly decorated. My Uncle Jack had the great misfortune of fighting in the siege of Khe Sanh in 1968, a battle credited with being one of the longest and bloodiest of the Vietnam war. He made it out of Khe Sanh and home from the jungle, but he was scheduled to return a year or so later. That return never happened. He got sick, and from then (if we’re to believe my father) until he died at the ripe old age of 89, he was obsessed with illness and convinced, at least most of the time, that he had something serious that the doctors were unwilling or unable to identify.
My Uncle Jack’s real or perceived health issues were a running joke. I admit that I grew up chuckling about his obsession with his health. He laughed about it sometimes himself. As a kid, I had no idea that THINKING and WORRYING about being sick could be just as bad or worse than actually being physically ill. I also didn’t understand that his laughter didn’t necessarily mean he thought it was funny.
I know differently now. My own anxiety about my body, and specifically about any aches, pains, or strange passing sensations has been known to cause me significant distress. I’ve also worked with clients that struggled with these issues and whose daily lives are negatively impacted.
