I wasn’t going to keep the appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) yesterday, since the dry cough that had been plaguing me for 5-6 weeks had finally stopped.
I’d procrastinated so long about cancelling the appointment, though, that I figured her office would charge me for it, so I might as well go.
As it turned out, that may have been the best thing I’ve done for myself in a long time.
In the course of the appointment, I told my doctor about losing my adoptive Ma a few days ago.
She looked concerned and asked how I was handling it – the first person to ask in that particular way, as opposed to the generic “how are you” to which you are supposed to reply, “fine”. And that made me realize that I’ve been way off-kilter – insomnia, difficulty concentrating, moments of extreme anger – since my hospitalization at the end of July, and even before that.
She asked me a serious of very specific questions, which obviously were leading to a diagnosis which came as a surprise and shock: major depression and anxiety. I had almost every symptom.
She prescribed a type of medication called an SSRI. The theory is that it prevents the nerve cells from reabsorbing the neurotransmitter serotonin, thus increasing levels in the brain. Increased serotonin improves mood by enhancing the sending of nerve impulses.
Evidently no one knows what causes depression, although it is familial.
In my case, I think it may have started when I was working at a local manufacturing company last year. Founded by people of intellect, compassion and aristocratic grace, the company is now run by a heavy-handed management that doesn’t understand the nuances of employee relations. Evidently they haven’t heard of ADEA, either, or at least their understanding is limited to accommodations for visible illnesses.
That is typical of this region: Cape Cod is a backwater when it comes to work environments. To paraphrase one of my adoptive father’s favorite sayings, “Ignorance is forgiveable, but malice is forever.”
A study published in this month’s Psychological Science showed that people with a high sense of personal power lack compassion and empathy.
That is certainly true of the well-off people who decide to move here and take management positions at local companies. It’s a problem that, unfortunately, will probably not be solved until the next tier of junior executives and supervisors takes over, or maybe even the generation behind them, the Gen Y-ers and Millenials, who seem to have developed the emotional intelligence lacking in both the Boomers and Gen X.
I’m sure that quitting smoking last Winter didn’t help balance my brain chemistry, nor did the Type A sausage factory where I worked after the manufacturing company or the two TIAs that happened at the end of July. The death of my adoptive Ma after watching her decline from a reasonably happy, independent woman to a frail little skeleton could have sent me into a complete tailspin.
I’m probably lucky that I’m not dead or crazy or in jail for felony murder at this point. Probably the reason I’m not is the fact that I started an exercise regime and, more importantly, spent so much time this summer with my youngest grandchild, James. I’m convinced that his innocent, loving heart very likely kept me from the brink.
The point that I want to make about all of this is that until last week, at no time did anyone suggest that I was ill: no HR director, no family member, no friend.
Rather, some people, many people, maybe most people were casting value judgments here, there and everywhere. I made them uncomfortable. I said things they didn’t like. I wasn’t “technically” capable. I wasn’t “positive”.
About a week ago, Peter said in anger and consternation that he thought I needed counselling. Well, his bedside manner royally stunk, but his heart was absolutely in the right place. If he hadn’t put that thought in my head, I wouldn’t have discussed it with my PCP. I wouldn’t have been diagnosed. I wouldn’t now be on medication to heal the imbalance in my poor brain.
I asked my sister, who’s been under tremendous stress, if she’s been taking care of her own head. Turns out, she has, a relief, I’m glad.
The other point I want to make is that if I’m typical, and no reason to think that I’m not, a depressed person is not able to see that something is wrong, that they are not well.
You may be seeing things that others do not, and people will argue with you, saying you’re “silly” or you’re “wrong” or you’re malevolent or you should build that stupid bridge that will force you to “get over it”.
My unconscious may, indeed, have been trying to help me “get over it” by trying desperately to send a call for help over the last few weeks.
The lyrics from an old hymn had been rolling around in my head:
There is a balm in gilead
To make the wounded whole
There is a balm in gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul
Well, my soul was far from sinful, but my body was, indeed, wounded and suffering from an illness as potent as diabetes, hypertension or many other chronic diseases.
Arguing with a depressed person or denying their reality or throwing them headfirst out of your life is as cruel and ignorant as shoving a person with a broken leg off a cliff.
And that’s the message I want to leave with you today: don’t give up on your loved one. Tell them to get some help. Go with them if you have to. Get some help.