THE DOCTOR IS OUT

The doctor-patient relationship comes just after hair stylist relationship for me in terms of familiarity. I guess it’s fortunate that I see my stylist, Melissa, considerably more often than I see my doctor. Let good health keep it that way.

 

But a change is coming. Last Wednesday, I saw my family doctor, Scott, for the last time. (Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s one of the things I like about him.) Scott is retiring. I knew this day was coming. Selfishly, I’d hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Sooner happens to be next month. 

 

I’ve been seeing Scott for thirty years. By comparison, Melissa’s only been cutting my hair for nine. 

 

I have no doubt I present challenges to doctors. Prior to Scott, the last family doctor I saw was in Santa Monica, a name I got from a list provided by the HMO that served my employer. That doctor—let’s just call him Dr. No-Go—said at the end of my (first and last) appointment, “I never want to see you again.”

 

I was startled. Did I hear him right? 

 

What was there to mishear?

 

Clearest, perhaps harshest breakup ever. Was he allowed to do that? What would be the point of asserting, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Presumably, those little hammers to test knee reflexes could be weaponized. 

 

Scott knew how to deal with a squeamish, quirky patient like me. As I told him last week, he always regarded me with proper amusement, including the fact I’d show up for appointments in the early years drinking from a bottle of orange juice. “Someone told me it’ll keep me from fainting,” I explained. As he’d ask medical questions or share medical information, I gulped my OJ. 

 

I never fainted in Scott’s office. (Now would be a good time to belatedly apologize to an ophthalmologist and that guy who thought I’d passed out from a seizure during a hearing test.)

 

For at least the first two decades of seeing Scott, I had the biggest crush on him. He had—and has—classic good looks of a quintessential Scotsman: curly auburn hair, freckles, green eyes. My legs would shake; I had a hard time making eye contact. My awkwardness was no doubt seen as squeamishness. Oh, how it was so much more complicated! 

 

Despite the crush, there were a couple of years when I didn’t see Scott. It should come as no surprise that I avoided medical professionals. But then I got melanoma at thirty-four and I’d have to go in for, at the very least, referrals to dermatology specialists to get chunks of skin cut out. Fun times.

 

It wasn’t until 2014 when visits to Scott became considerably more frequent. I fell apart in his office before Easter, dropping from a chair to the floor. It wasn’t on account of fainting and, to this day, I’ve never had a seizure. Instead, I was suicidal. I was having a major mental breakdown. 

 

Scott gave me an Ativan, then asked if I needed to go to the hospital. “Yes,” I said through shakes and tears. His office was only three blocks from St. Paul’s so I did not want to go by ambulance. Instead, he called ahead to alert doctors of my pending arrival and current condition. He had an employee escort me to Emergency. My last words before leaving his office: “Don’t let them send me home.”

 

This week, I had the pleasure of thanking him once again. “You saved my life. I’m certain of that. I have lived eleven years longer—so far—thanks to you. I am immensely grateful for your care that day and since then as well.”

 

Of course, I was crying as I shared this with him. His eyes welled up, too.

 

That was my first stint in the psych ward. I was readmitted in 2017 and I’ve been on long-term disability ever since. In 2019, I was hospitalized for six weeks due to an eating disorder and then spent eight weeks in a group home. In 2021, I had a stay in a crisis care group home. I turned down another eating disorder hospitalization this year. (I’m receiving extensive outpatient support.) 

 

Scott has been the one constant as I’ve navigated my mental health journey since 2014. In that time, I’ve seen a dozen psychiatrists, a half dozen counselors, dietitians, occupational therapists, countless nurses and others in the medical field. So many introductions. But I always had Scott. What will I do without him?

 

Survive. I know that much.

 

“You made a difference,” I repeated several times during my last appointment. “I appreciate you so much. I am full of gratitude and I need to share it.” 

 

I’m guessing Scott is sixty-two. His husband, already retired at seventy, is awaiting full-time experiences together. They are planning a triathlon in the near future…at his husband’s insistence. Scott has always been very active and has gone on many adventure-packed vacations. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, setting aside tears for a joyous laugh. “So many good times are ahead for you. Enjoy retirement!”

 

A final thank you. One long, tight hug. 

 

And with a colonoscopy referral in hand—suddenly much less joy—I said goodbye.

 

Thankfully, there is a new doctor in place to take over the practice. No shoes to fill. Not possible. Just new shoes. I’ll do my best to behave. And, yes, there will be a bottle of orange juice in my backpack. Just in case.

If you are feeling suicidal, there is hope. There is an OTHER SIDE after getting proper support. In Canada and the U.S., the Suicide Crisis Hotline is 9-8-8. Also, 911 is available and medical staff are ready to connect you with support--and care--in hospital emergency rooms. 

 

 

  

A SUDDEN SHIFT

I hate feeling off. 

 

I woke up fine. I got in a couple of decent writing sessions. Then I made the mistake of stepping outside. Immediately, my mood sank. I wanted a good cry. For nothing. 

 

I did not cry.

 

I am better able at keeping myself together now, even when I can’t shake the off-ness. 

 

It’s not just me. I sensed the sun was off, too. Something about the hue of light hitting the sidewalk wasn’t right, a little orange filtered in. I glanced up and the sun looked normal. It was the clouds surrounding it that had an unnatural grayness. Forest fire season, I told myself. There must be one with some bad air filtering this way. Early stages of any impact on the city. I hate when it gets worse, when the sun is reduced to an eerie red ball all day, when I breathe in smoky air. 

 

Stay away. Please.

 

On my way back from my road trip, I caught the smoky haze first in Redding, California, then in Bend, Oregon. Two different fires, the smokiness felt with every inhale in Redding but a distinct haze affecting skies in Bend, too. 

 

Stop following me.

 

I don’t think it’s forest fire fatigue that’s hitting me. I’m supposed to have accepted this new normal which has annually affected Vancouver’s summer skies since at least 2015. I haven’t. I’m bloody tired of the public and the politicians doubling down to fight any life changes and extra costs that may help the planet. If we treated this like a war, we’d all pitch in, we’d accept sacrifices. We’d see necessary changes to the economy. Instead, people deny the obvious. They put heads in the sand. Politicians fail to lead. Laws and regulations don’t change or are stricken by new governments, voted in to restore what was, planet be damned.

 

That could impact my mood. That could explain this off-ness. But I’m certain that’s not it. I’ve had the environment and people’s recalcitrance on my mind every day for years now. We need more Gretas. I need to be more like her. 

 

It’s more likely my mood suddenly dropped due to a personal haze, that which follows a travel adventure. I’d been gone four weeks, most of it on the Oregon and California coasts. Breezes and sunshine—the normal kind—every day. My mood usually dips after trips. But I still think that won’t hit until tomorrow when it’s the weekend and I don’t have as strict a writing schedule to occupy me. I really won’t have much of anything to occupy me. Even in regular times, I prefer my weekday work mode to the relative emptiness of Saturdays and Sundays. My travel dip awaits.

 

And so there it is. I’ve done my due diligence in scanning for causes of depression. It’s not linked to anything at all. So often, that is the case. I step out of my condo, my little protective bubble, and I realize I’m part of—or perhaps not part of—something bigger. I’m here, taken aback by a mood that can’t be explained away. Without a specific cause, it’s difficult to turn it around. I know not to fight it. Depression is a master at its own doubling down. I have to walk with it and through it. I will feel it until I don’t. 

 

I understand this is why some people may choose some sort of upper—alcohol, drugs, anonymous sex—as a temporary escape. The option of a quick, if temporary, escape may entice. I’m just not wired that way. A good thing in the long run though harder in the short-term. 

 

I’m down but I won’t go fetal in my bed. I’m not even rushing back to my bubble. (It’s already burst.) I sip on my oat milk latte in a café. I write this out, my formal acknowledgement. Yes, depression. I see you, I feel you.

 

For now, I am disconnected from everything around me. I am not liking this damn shift one bit. This is the hand I’ve been dealt for today, maybe longer. There is no other deck. I play it. 

 

Play. Funny word. Sometimes no fun at all.