For part one click here.
Actually, this part takes place outside the psychiatrist's office. It happens over the phone and goes like this:
ME: Well, it's been one month since I visited my PFF, I'd best give her a call. (dials phone. waits while it rings. Makes annoyed face when answering machine picks up and points out that PFF's hours are Tuesday-Friday noon to 5:00 pm.)Um, hi. This message is for Dr. PFF. This is Laura and I met with you a month ago and you said to call you so I'm calling. . . Yeah. . . thanks.
Two days later
ME: (talking to friend who has had experience with a PFFs' offices) My PFF hasn't called back. What am I supposed to do? Do I call and leave another message?
FRIEND: I'd give it a week. They always take a week to get back to you.
Five days later
ME: (answering phone in the middle of rushed dinner during which I am trying to shove food down my toddler's throat before I leave for my ASL class) Hello? Who? Oh! Dr. PFF. Yes, sure, now's a good time. . . [Here's where I gave her some brief info about my emotional upheavals of late, part of which I now feel okay stating was an early first trimester miscarriage, and that my therapist recommended I go back up to my regular dose of Cymbalta. PFF agreed with my therapist's thoughts and hung up.]
Okay, so that really wasn't dramatic enough to warrant a dramatic writing style but that's kind of my point. I thought my phone call to the PFF would be a milestone for her. It really wasn't. It was just one more tick mark on the long, mundane chart that is my depression--at least from a clinical standpoint.
For me that phone call felt like defeat. It was admitting my failure at pregnancy and failures in other areas of my life. It was accepting the ultimate failure of my careful plans. It was the point that made me stop and reconsider and own up to the fact that things were different. I'd been trying to act like nothing had changed. The miscarriage was early enough that I told myself it didn't really matter. But it, and the other things that happened right on it's tail, did.
I tried going back up to my regular dose, but it made me sick. After a couple days I was a nauseous narcoleptic so I decided to go back to my lower dose. I'm not sick but my mood has been a little more mercurial, which is making me nervous. I don't have any refills left on the lower dose pills--that means another phone call to the PFF. Which I guess I'd better make soon, since it always takes at least a week to hear back!
I find myself fantasizing about the resurrection and how when I'm made whole I won't be depressed anymore and I won't have to take any pills and it will be easy to do the things I'm supposed to do. But that's kind of cold comfort. What I really want is for things to be easy now. Of course, in that way God is a little bit like that old song: you can't always get what you want; you get what you need. And what I need right now is another happy pill. *sigh*