Yesterday I had my labs drawn; they'll tell me how my liver is handling the Rebif. I think the results will be in sometime today.
Annnd--this is a good thing--I now have a Primary Care Provider.
I also managed to get an appointment with her yesterday. How did I manage to get in to see her so soon, you might ask? Weeeeellll... the secretary asked what I wanted to come in for, and I said, "Depression."
"Oh." She seemed to suddenly get very serious and I heard lots of typing in the background.
"I think she's got a 2:00 available."
"I'll be there."
"You'll like her. She's good."
I think I owe that secretary flowers or something. I didn't name drop, cry, threaten, anything; and she got me in.
So then I went to the appointment. I took a little typed-up medical history with me... my list of doctors and all the stuff I'm taking. Rebif, Adderall, Xanax, Klonopin, Lunesta, Percocet (10/625's), Allergy shots, Multivitamin, Benadryl, Tylenol, Celebrex.
Got on the scale. Lost five pounds, whoops... wasn't trying to do that. I thought I was eating more.
After I met the medical assistant, I met my new physician. She cut to the chase immediately. I liked her right away for it. And here's something I learned... You can think about suicide, but telling someone that you have an actual plan--and telling them some of the details of that plan--gets you admitted to the psychiatric ward. I learn something new every day.
Of course I have a plan. Duh! I think it would be stupid NOT to have a plan in my situation. I have a plan, it's a pretty good plan--ya gotta be stone cold dead way before the paramedics arrive--and I do not plan on never having a plan. I have MS, and because I am always symptomatic I will know exactly where the exit door is, and I will always sit very, very close to it. I'm not stupid.
It's like this... being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis is like being locked in a dim room with a very, very large spider. Every so often that spider gets hungry, so it comes over and poisons you... sickens you... paralyzes you a little here and there. It doesn't kill you off entirely, it keeps you somewhere between life and death so that it can continue to grow while you get weaker and weaker.
The spider is a loathsome, filthy thing. It doesn't have just eight bulbous eyes, or eight legs... it has many more. Some of those eyes are always watching me, even when I sleep. For long hours it appears completely frozen in its corner. Is it dead? I move, and it twitches. It is hideous. I can smell it with my eyes closed.
The room has one window. People can come and wave at me, and talk to me, but nobody sees the spider except me. So trying to point it out to them, it's... well... it makes me sound crazy.
I don't want to sound crazy, so I make small talk with the occasional visitor. Most of the time, I'm alone. The only person
in the room is me
So HOW is it selfish of me to want to have a way out? I would never, never, ask someone else to live this way. From all I can gather, I shouldn't end my life because somehow that will hurt *them*. My own continual suffering and fear seems not to matter. I don't want to hurt anyone else, I just need my own hurting to stop.
Maybe when they're locked up with their own spider they'll understand.
I got put on Zoloft.
I also had to promise not to hurt myself until my next appointment (fine) which is TODAY (interesting) at 5:30.