Nothing's wrong with me, I'm just a hypochondriac

I'm on the mend from a nasty illness that, presumably came from sleeping with the window open on a chilly Sunday night. Fever, aches, pains, headache and grand finale of vomit – it wasn't a particular fun past few days. I'm not someone who relishes being sick – I can't remember the last time I took a genuine sick day. I have about 180 hours of sick time. Plus, my wife will attest I'm the worst sick person in the world – whining, groaning and all that stuff. Factor in my propensity for hypochondria and I'm a real joy. Imagine my wife's excitement yesterday to hear my self-diagnosis of West Nile Virus. I chalk up my hypochondria to my family (I've got an aunt with a bad case of it). I also blame watching ER too much when I was younger – watching people come in with a stubbed toe or nosebleed and leaving in a hearse because of foot cancer or a brain implosion. When I spiked a high fever last summer in Arkansas and had to be admitted to a hospital, I was reasonably convinced I had lung cancer or some other terrible, deadly illness. But, it appears again this time, I've escaped a devastating diagnosis. Wait, I just coughed, what does that mean?