I bit the bullet. Two weeks ago I found myself sitting across from a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. Does anyone see an actual MD these days? At any rate, there I was in front of an NP from Nigeria. Not at all what I was expecting – no long bearded white fellow with a pipe and wearing well worn loafers. Stereotypical but nonetheless I was surprised.
When I walked in I was greeted by two lovely ladies and asked to take a seat. When I went up to the counter to pay and they told me the visit would be $300 I almost walked out. My face must have shown my distress because one of the ladies said “I can see by your face that you’re a little stressed by that but trust me it will be well worth your money, and future visits don’t cost that much.” I gave her a weak smile and handed over my card.
When I was shown back, they immediately took my weight. Why? What is there to gain from a Psychiatrist knowing my weight, except that I might be a *bit* depressed over it? Then once the shock had worn off that the doctor’s scale was not quite the same as mine at home, she proceeded to take my blood pressure. 150/106. That’s a little high, she says. Have you had any caffeine today? I stared at her, my mind whirring. What to say, what to say?! I settle on the truth and say “well yes. I drink Diet Coke all day long.” She stares back, incredulous. All day? she says, astounded. Yes. All day. I’m certain you are judging me right now but I don’t care. The caffeine consumption is the least of my worries. Well, she says slowly, that could be why your BP is elevated. Lady, that is not why. Maybe it’s because I just handed over $300 big ones and had my actual weight thrown in my face. That’d make anyone’s BP skyrocket. https://www.sstack.com/dura-tech-polar-fleece-dress-sheet/p/31047/?sku=31047%2081%20NV&glCountry=us&gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjwps-zBhAiEiwALwsVYRdSwfizaWdgM2CdfvHRk-adkaeQN6CMB9MZXf9rEkLdMOi1G31bOhoCqf8QAvD_BwE&variant=true
I am shown to the consulting room. There, instead of a woman named, interestingly, “Princess” is a man whose name I cannot pronounce. This isn’t going to be good, I think to myself. I thought I was getting a woman. What if I can’t understand this dude? Blood pressure mounting steadily, I sit down across from him.
He’s typing into a computer. No notebook, clipboard and pen these days. He smiles at me and asks me what I am feeling right now, why have I come to see him? I blurt out “I thought I was going to be seeing a woman. I’m a little on the wrong foot here.” He smiles apologetically and says that they were somewhat overbooked.
I can feel the tears welling. It has not been a good day, depression wise, and now I feel that after having summoned the courage to come to a Psychiatrist I have made a mistake. I don’t think I will be able to open up to him. His name is Alvin (Simon, Theodore!) and he is, I soon find out, extremely nice and easygoing. As we begin I start to feel a little more relaxed and the tears thankfully disappear back into my brain, or my ears, or wherever it is that tears go when they don’t fall down your face.
He mentions my blood pressure. I tell him I have every confidence that it is stress related due to the $300 and the numbers on the scale. He laughs and says we’ll lets take it again at the end of the session and see what it is then. He is a kind man. We talk about him being from Nigeria as I find things to fiddle with on his desk, straightening his business cards over and over again.
We come to the actual reason I am there. Depression and grief. Suicidal thoughts or intentions he asks? Never I say. I would never do that to my Baby Girl. He asks how long I have been depressed. Um, since college? We go through all the details of what my life has been like over the past five/six years. We go through the mental history of my mom’s side. When you list it all out like that it doesn’t look good. In fact, I’m shocked I’m as mentally healthy as I am. I am destined to have Alzheimer’s or something equally depressing when you take a hard look at that side of the family. And your Dad’s side? he asks. Oh, I say, nothing. No, nothing there. They’re all good. Very mentally stable. I was hoping, in fact, that I had enough of my Dad’s side blood to keep me from dementia as a foregone conclusion.
Eventually he says, well you know what the diagnosis is. And I say, yes of course. Grief and chronic depression. And anxiety he adds. Right. Now that we’ve established that for the records, what can you do for me? I have to admit that I did not know that I wouldn’t be sitting there having a grief related bawl session with him once a week (though my finances are grateful.) He explains that I need to see a grief counselor separately to him. He is the drugs guy. Well thank heavens for that I say. I explain that he needs to give me ONE name. If he gives me a list I will not follow through. I tell him that is the reason it took me over a year to actually come to him. My regular NP gave me a list of psychiatrists to look into. They were all in Denton. I finally chose THIS practice based solely on location (Aubrey) and a few excellent reviews. That list was stared at and then tossed.
He gives me the list anyway. I glance at it briefly. He explains it shows location and price per session. I say where are the freebies? He says there is something called “Grief Share” which is held at local churches for free that I could try. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t looked at that list.
Then we talk about meds. Have you been on this one and that one, or this one or that one? I’ve tried a bunch of them over the years. I tell him I take Cymbalta currently and he explains that it only has a half-life of 10-12 hours, so since I take it at night it is certainly helping me until the morning. I think he is being somewhat sarcastic but I’m not entirely sure. I am more than a little surprised to hear that the med I’ve been taking for years hasn’t really been helping me because I was taking it at the wrong time of day. He says we need to get you fully covered. I am all for that. Let’s do it! Bring it on, Doc, I am extremely ready to feel better.
At the end of the session I have been prescribed Wellbutrin on top of the Cymbalta. I am willing to give it a shot.
Friends, it has been two weeks. I DO feel better. I am not raring to go with energy (never have been) but I feel more like myself. I have more focus. Slightly less tired. Can make it through the day better. Am happier and less irritated. Fingers crossed things continue to improve with time.
For the sake of my privacy, I have obviously not disclosed everything in this blog. But I know that some of you have been on this journey with me, and might be interested in the progression. Some of you may want to know that I finally have gotten some support. Some of you may want to know what a first time Psychiatry appointment is like, in case you are pondering whether to go yourself.
As for my grief… well it comes and goes. Note to self – Dilliards, especially the Liz Claiborne and the make up sections, will still smell and look like they did when you went there with your mom so many times. Barnes and Noble will have her ghost in the pages of the books it sells. And Auntie Anne’s pretzels will taste like she’s eating cinnamon pretzels right next to you. Dad is in the American flag out front, in the garage with Tony and on the tractor, in the sun and wind and back porch sitting with a little bit of whiskey and a smoke.
I’m not so sure I need that grief counseling.