Growing up, I always found it absurd when classmates chanted, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” To me, it was a nonsensical rhyme that made little sense. Instead, I focused on far more plausible dangers, like, “Touch a public doorknob and contract MRSA.”
My official diagnosis of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) didn’t come until I was ten, but the seeds of anxiety were sown much earlier. I vividly remember being on the couch, captivated by a 20/20 episode discussing the Ebola virus and its transmission through monkeys. My imagination spiraled as I recalled my recent trip to the local zoo: How close was I to the monkey exhibit? Were the monkeys imported from regions experiencing outbreaks? Did any of them sneeze?
Fast forward twenty years, and while my worries have morphed, they remain just as relentless. My partner often quips about my extensive knowledge of diseases, which he insists should have earned me an honorary medical degree. Our playful banter often revolves around a game we call “let’s remove WebMD from the homepage and see how long it takes for her to unravel.”
Through the years, I’ve learned to identify certain triggers that amplify my OCD. For instance, when salmonella outbreaks rise, I steer clear of anything fish-related (I was nine, give me a break!). If security alerts heighten, I avoid airports and crowded places. However, nothing prepared me for the most formidable trigger of all: a positive pregnancy test.
The prospect of pregnancy introduced a myriad of health concerns that could endanger my developing child. I became hyper-focused on Listeriosis, researching it obsessively. I convinced myself that avoiding deli meats, soft cheeses, and raw fish was the key to safety.
Then came the day I dreaded—news of a listeria outbreak traced back to Colorado, though the source eluded identification. I monitored the situation obsessively, even waking up at odd hours for updates. One fateful evening, while indulging in a bowl of pre-cut cantaloupe drizzled with chocolate syrup, breaking news revealed the culprit: cantaloupe.
In the days following this revelation, I went into a frenzy. I called every grocery store in town, interrogated produce managers, and even enlisted my friend Lily to investigate if they washed their fruits before stocking. Despite my frantic efforts, I still believed I needed tests and antibiotics. When I reached out to my gynecologist’s office, the nurse dismissed my concerns, assuring me I was “fine” and that the outbreak hadn’t reached our area.
Thinking quickly, I fabricated a little white lie, claiming I had been on a nationwide cantaloupe tour. The nurse suggested I return if symptoms arose, completely missing the gravity of my fears.
I’ve cataloged Listeriosis alongside my other OCD obsessions—Ebola, melanoma, bird flu, and that peculiar Benjamin Button syndrome. Though I anticipate that my fears will resurface with future pregnancies, for now, I enjoy a rare moment of calm. This is the nature of OCD; you simply endure each wave of anxiety until a fleeting period of peace arrives. Today is one of those good days. I plan to take a lovely stroll with my daughter—after I thoroughly disinfect her stroller, of course. I’ve heard influenza is staging a comeback.
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Summary
This article explores the author’s journey with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, detailing the irrational fears that accompany it, particularly during pregnancy. It highlights the challenges of managing anxiety around health risks and offers links to relevant resources for readers seeking more information on pregnancy and home insemination.