<

I could have used a new, creative explative earlier in the day. I made an attempt to call my doctor about the recent depression and anxiety problems. This conversation ensued:

Shit Mittens: Dr. C's office. Please hold.

Me: (I didn't say anything. While I may be mentally ill, I'm not that far-gone.)

SM: Yes?

Me: I'm a patient of Dr. C's and I'm having some substantial problems with depression, anxiety and insomnia. (Choking a little on tears.) I need to see her very soon. Like, this afternoon or Monday.

SM: Hold please.

Me: (sputtering and sobbing a little)

SM: She can see you on July 10th.

Me: Huh?

SM: Dr. C. can see you on July 10th.

Me: You've got to be kidding me!

SM: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just breathing.)

Me: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just sniveling.)

Crickets: Chirp. Chirp ... Chirp?

Over a minute passes.

Me: Well. Thanks so much for all your help.

Shit Mittens!

I wonder if this particular receptionist, if faced with a call from a patient who said, "Um, yeah? I just removed the tip of my thumb in a tragic bagel-slicing accident?" would respond with, "Dr. C. can see you in two weeks."

This isn't the first time I've had this kind of problem with my doctor's office. About four years ago, I noticed that a mole I've had my whole life was morphing and itching. What do they tell you to do when you notice a suddent change in a dark, raised mole? Why, get thee to a doctor, Dumbass!

I called my doctor and had a conversation similar to the one above with a different receptionist. At the time my dear friend PKB worked in human resources at the company where B. works. PKB is what we call "the big guns". She called my doctor's office, kicked around her name and title, conferenced called me in (where I had to work exceptionally hard to not giggle), threatened them with serious recourse, and got me an appointment for later that same day.

Not that it matters, but upon seeing the small mammal sprouting from my right shoulder, my doctor sent me to a dermatologist, who promptly began digging at my mole and the surrounding flesh with a garden spade. As for that receptionist, I never saw her again.

Alas, PKB no longer works for that company, and I didn't feel like battling some 19-year-old twit in scrubs who doesn't get that, when a long-time patient with a file full of depression and anxiety incidents calls and says, "Yo. I need medical intervention to get me off the dang roof," waiting two weeks might not be an option.

If I was a receptionist in that position, I would not want that person's health on my conscious. No way, no how.

For many people with mental illness, it takes a lot of work to get guts to reach out for help. Many people never reach that point, instead living lives of suffering and desperation. Or worse, ceasing to live at all. For a medical professional to 1) think depression or anxiety are frivilous enough to merit a two-week wait for an appointment, and 2) give that patient the silent treatment when the patient expresses that this isn't an option, well ... that's someone who made a poor career choice.

When B. got home from work at 2:00 and saw that I was gritting my teeth, exhausted, frustrated with yet another nap battle with Clara Jane, he placed himself in the PKB role and called the doctor's office to raise some holy hell. Once again, I found myself with an afternoon appointment.

I love my doctor. I really do. I love her nurses. I don't get why she can't seem to find a decent office staff. I immediately felt better after talking to her. She doesn't just throw drugs at patients and send them on their way. She treats the whole person and examines the root of the problems. In my case, she thinks there's something chemical amiss, possibly due to my birth control pills. She sent me on my way with an antidepressant prescription. But that's not enough. Antidepressants can make anxiety worse and they need to be coupled with other drugs to strike a balance.

Okay. So what if that drug happens to be an antipsychotic agent?

That's going to look fabulous in my medical records.

Shit mittens.