The old saying “step on a crack, break your mother’s back” has always struck me as nonsensical. While my classmates would chant this absurd rhyme, I found myself questioning their logic. Anyone with a basic understanding of anatomy knows that sidewalk cracks have no connection to the human spine. Instead, I occupied my mind with more plausible scenarios, such as “touching a public doorknob could lead to a severe bacterial infection.”
I was officially diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) at the age of ten, yet I can remember grappling with intense fears long before my initial therapy session. One vivid memory involves reading on the couch when a segment on 20/20 detailed the Ebola virus outbreak in Africa and its transmission through monkeys. My mind, racing like a hamster on a wheel, spiraled into thoughts about my last visit to the local zoo. How close had I been to the monkey enclosure? Had any of them sneezed?
Fast forward twenty years, and while my fears may have evolved, they remain just as relentless. My husband often finds it frustrating that I lack a medical degree despite countless hours spent researching various diseases and pathogens. We often play a lighthearted game where he removes WebMD from the homepage, just to see how long it takes for me to become anxious.
Over the years, I have learned to navigate certain OCD “triggers.” Specific fears can be exacerbated by particular events, prompting me to avoid situations that may heighten my anxiety. For instance, when salmonella cases rise, I steer clear of eating salmon (I was only nine at the time). During heightened security alerts, I avoid airports and government buildings. However, nothing could prepare me for my biggest OCD trigger: a positive pregnancy test.
Pregnancy introduced a host of new medical concerns. I became increasingly aware of illnesses that could jeopardize my unborn child’s health, leading me to obsessively research Listeriosis. I convinced myself that by avoiding deli meats, soft cheeses, pâté, and raw fish, I could sidestep this dangerous pathogen.
During my fifth month of pregnancy, news broke of a listeria outbreak in Colorado, but the source had yet to be identified. I followed the developments obsessively, even waking in the middle of the night for updates. One Tuesday evening, while sitting down with a bowl of pre-cut cantaloupe and Hershey’s syrup, I was hit with breaking news: the source of the listeria outbreak had been identified—cantaloupe.
If you crossed paths with me in the days following this announcement, I apologize. I called every grocery store in town, interrogated produce managers, and even sent my friend Lucy to ask a store employee if they washed their produce. Despite their reassurances, I was convinced I needed blood tests and antibiotics. When I called my gynecologist’s office and explained my situation, the nurse dismissed my concerns, stating I was “fine” and that the outbreak did not affect Central Illinois.
Thinking quickly, I fabricated a little white lie and told her I had been traveling the country on a “cantaloupe tour.” She advised me to return if I experienced any symptoms. Nurses these days…
I have cataloged Listeriosis in my ever-growing database of OCD obsessions (alongside Ebola, melanoma, avian flu, MRSA, and even that peculiar Benjamin Button syndrome). I expect it will resurface during my next pregnancy, as all my fixations tend to do. But for now, I find solace in brief moments of peace. This is the nature of living with OCD—you ride the waves of anxiety, waiting for a reprieve, which eventually comes, only to be replaced by the next obsession. Today, however, is a good day—a serene day. I plan to take a pleasant walk with my daughter, but first, I need to disinfect her stroller. I hear influenza is making a comeback.
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