It's natural to worry. It's built in us all. Some people can deal with this in built urge in different ways. Some can actually go about their daily business without even giving a thought to whether or not they've taken that chicken out of the freezer to defrost for dinner tonight? And did I close the freezer behind me? Did I remember to cover the chicken? Will I get home to a flooded kitchen and a piece of raw meat stinking out the house and spreading disease? DID I?!
Yes, some people just don't care. Or perhaps they just don't allow these paranoid thoughts to rule the roost.
I envy these people.
I worry. About everything. To the point that I OFTEN over-analyse the smallest of things as mundane as 'what bus will we catch?'. This drives people close to me to the brink of suicide. Not really of course. But pretty close.
This worrying aspect of my personality was kindly passed on from my mother, who is the champion for unnecessary stress. She holds a level of skill in terms of worrying I can only worry I'll never achieve.
This in mind, when I became ill and it was found that I had Crohn's, my mums worrying went into OVERDRIVE. She was constantly on edge waiting for updates and anxiously calling me or my boyfriend at every opportunity for updates on how many times I'd vomited that morning.
I jest of course, but all this was understandable, I myself was a big crohnic ball of worry too. I was terrified at what was happening to my body and scared to look into my crystal bowel to see what the future may hold for my newly diseased self. The Nicholls worry machine was in full flow - we were on fire. Coincidentally so was my backside the majority of the time.
When I had had my surgery and was safely ensconced at home and recovering, my mum was always on hand to help. However, rather than her worry levels start to subside to see me in a more relaxed environment than a bustling hospital ward, she seemed to find it harder to let go. She had to remain in almost constant contact, to the point of panicking I was taken into hospital again if I couldn't answer a call within minutes. This on turn made me worry about her. And stress. And get ill. And so the circle of Crohn's begins again.
So how much concern is too much? My mum worries for good reason. Two of her children suffer from incurable illnesses. She feels helpless, and to blame, and fears for our futures. She doesn't want sympathy for this - she hates the fact that she can't simply do her motherly duty of kissing it better and sticking a plaster of it. Because 'it' can't be kissed away. I wouldn't kiss mines anyway - it's all diseased. Eww.
My mum and I have now reached an understanding of sorts. I have (as I try to with everyone close to me) promised to be honest when I'm bad, and make the most of it when I'm good. She has promised to back off a little and let me learn to cope with my illness on my own, as much as I can.
Unless I need a cuddle. Then all bets are off.