Health anxiety (née hypochondria) really is one of the dumbest mental illnesses around, ain’t it? They all suck, to be sure, but can you name another mental illness that can give you instant diarrhea because you remembered a raccoon *might have* brushed against your husband’s leg a year ago????

That’s right, y’all!! I once spiraled into diarrheal distress because I had an epiphany that the weird ass raccoon that was trying to break into Curtis’s grandfather’s memorial lunch walked too close to him and maybe gave him rabies.

Wait, what? You’re confused? What’s confusing about a weird ass raccoon crashing Curtis’s grandfather’s funeral? I don’t get it.

Just kidding. Let me explain. Two winters ago, we were at Curtis’s aunt’s house for a lunch after his grandfather’s funeral. We were all hanging out, enjoying our Maine Italian sandwiches—or as out-of-staters call them, “salads on hot dog buns”—when someone suddenly shouted, “THERE’S A RACCOON AT THE DOOR!” And um, yup, lo and behold there was a raccoon tap-tap-tappin’ away at the glass front door. 

The thing about Curtis’s family is, they simply will not leave a raccoon to its own devices. Raccoon comes knocking on THEIR door? Oh hell yeah, they’re gonna go outside and see just what the fuck its problem is. So that’s what they did. They all sprinted outside in their Sunday best and started chasing down a goddamned raccoon.

And you know what its problem was? Well, folks, it was effed up. It for sure had rabies, plus several porcupine quills sticking out its butt. I’m not trying to make fun of the poor thing, it’s just, why mince words? It was totally effed up. Not in good shape, not long for this world.

Curtis and his family are people of the woods. When they see a clearly rabid, fatally injured raccoon trying to break down a front door, they’re gonna do what needs to be done—which is, of course, to euthanize it. A .22 rifle materialized out of thin air and they tried to put the raccoon out of its misery. And when I say “they,” I obviously mean “the men.” The gals and I were all inside, frantically dialing animal control and yelling at the dumbasses boys to get away from it.

They didn’t listen. And in fact, the raccoon ran between Curtis’s legs at one point. Or maybe it just brushed against one of his legs. I’m not sure which, and I’m not even positive it actually made contact with his pants. Nevertheless, a year later, the puzzle pieces in my brain finally snapped together.

Rabid raccoon + Physical contact = Rabid man????

No, not rabid man. He did not have rabies. Does not have rabies, as far as I know. But tell that to a hypochondriac with access to the internet (“what is the incubation period for rabies?” “rabies symptoms” “can you get rabies even if you don’t get bitten?”).

Fortunately, after 24 hours of irrational stress and interrogations (“did it touch your pants? DID IT TOUCH YOUR PANTS? ANSWER ME, YES OR NO!!!!!!”), logic kicked in and I remembered Curtis wasn’t bitten, slobbered on, or scratched and couldn’t possibly have rabies.

So all’s well that end’s well. And as for the raccoon, one of Curtis’s cousins fired off a round at it. It stumbled, collapsed, then rolled over, GOT UP, and trudged off into the horizon, never to be seen again.

(At least by us. Hopefully animal control took care of it. I love animals too but shit, no one wants a rabid raccoon knocking at their door!)

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A few footnotes—

1. This was supposed to be a blog about my colonoscopy. I really was just going to casually mention the raccoon incident with a line or two and continue on my merry way until I realized that youse might need a bit more backstory.
2. I also go through waves of crippling fear that our adopted shelter cat, who bites the shit out of us—and in fact just did so to me about 30 seconds ago—could have rabies (he is vaccinated!!! and displays no symptoms! still a little scared though tbh).
3. WordPress has an AI tool that helps writers improve their blog titles. I am, in the depths of my core, vehemently opposed to using AI. But I’m also curious and just wanted to see what garbage they’d suggest for this one. The first and last one suck but, well, Confronting Hypochondira: When Fear Leads to Diarrhea might just win a Pulitzer.