Someone call a paramedic!

My name is Gaby Doman and I am a hypochondriac.

Barely a month goes by when I don't have some sort of heart twinge (this has been explained away as indigestion), agonising stomach cramps (I have been told it's normal to feel on the brink of death every month) or some sort of eye problem (these seem to be my speciality).

I was inspired to write this column when last week, I collapsed on the bathroom floor in agony, writhed around for a bit and then passed out.

I'm still not entirely sure what was wrong but general consensus seems to be that I had a tummy ache and that my pain threshold is as low as a fruit fly's.

I suppose that's not really convincing as a story in hypochondria, as it actually sounds a bit serious when I read it back.

However, with my track record of being overzealous with doctor's visits, it's hard to separate the serious from the trivial.

Just today I convinced myself I might be going blind, when I read an article on diabetes-induced blindness.

I have a penchant for sugary sweets but that's as close as I am to having diabetes — or blindness, for that matter.

I have to repeat this as a mantra so that I don't waste any more of my poor doctor's time.

Am I the only one to have mine on speed dial?

Recently, I visited the doctor, believing I had a terrible throat infection that could possibly lead to my ultimate demise, only to be shunted out of the hospital clutching nothing but a packet of Lemsip Max Strength.

My most cringeworthy visit was when I convinced myself that I had a blood clot in my leg.

Blood clots are common in my family, so when my leg swelled up to enormous proportions for no apparent reason, I assumed the worst.

I visited my doctor week after week.

I spoke to a GP, saw specialists in various hospitals, had ultrasounds of my leg and pelvis and took urine tests.

I was poked and prodded, torches were shined, tape measures used and thermometers placed until they reached the conclusion that … nothing was wrong.

However, I am still convinced one of my legs is significantly bigger than the other.

Being a hypochondriac is like being the boy who cried wolf.

I feel like I have to work harder at convincing people that this time, I really am sick — you know the type of thing — a pathetic-sounding voice when you phone up your boss, perhaps just a little wheezing for effect and a lengthy explanation of just how awful your night has been.

You want them to really feel your pain.

In actual fact, I barely ever take a sick day and I've never taken antibiotics. So I've even started to wonder if I'm not, perhaps, a little bit of a trouper when it comes to ploughing on through with my many, many illnesses and general ailments.

Perhaps I'm not a hypochondriac at all and I'm just incredibly in tune with my body. I'll discuss it with my doctor tomorrow.