I have been writing this entry in my head for about two hours now, I even opened the phone app and literally started the file– the first keystrokes on the blank screen– in between doctor appointments. I feel a bit like the main character/Arlo Gunthrie in “Alice’s Restaurant.”
Which is a reference that probably only makes sense if you’re a Boomer or GenX like me.
In that song, the Arlo Gunthrie protagonist faces criminal charges of littering and the police department has submitted into evidence for the court case “27 eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles
and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one” only to have the judge enter the courtroom with a seeing-eye dog. (Then the joke: “it was a typical case of American
blind justice, and there wasn’t nothing he could do about it”)
If you need some more explanation… Here’s the whole song.
I woke up at 5 a.m., wide awake for two reasons. 1. My brain had flipped back on. Full force. 18 thoughts at the same time. But 65 minutes of deep sleep, even though I only slept six.
I tried to go back to sleep, I really did, but I ended up clamoring to my feet. And for some reason, I got dressed. Like really dressed. Fake satin and lace skirt, sweater, dress shirt, boots. Gained five pounds because they weighed me with my boots.
My blood pressure was high because I had two doctor appointments this morning, one of which I have been concerned about for more than a week.
I left a few minutes later than I would have preferred because I stopped to do some dishes, thought I left my phone behind, then circled back because I had had my phone the whole time. I made it almost to the office when I remembered my primary care practice had moved to a new building (luckily, more or less across the street from the old building) and when I arrived in the parking lot, I realized how big the new building was. And the signage wasn’t the best.
The inside of the building on the side that wasn’t the big physical therapy office seemed dark and unfinished, with about six self-service check-in kiosks right inside the door. So I walked around the building before heading in. And turns out those walls that looked merely framed out and not finished– that was actually decorative trim. Then I found the building directory and elevator (which took forever to go one floor) only to have it open into one of those massive waiting rooms with several practices feeding into it. Yup, definitely not the homey small feel I am used to.
And by the way, if I would have turned right and gone up the stairs, the waiting room was right there.
I finally arrive and the woman who checked me in is there for the day and needs a minute to figure things out, and a familiar face comes and helps her, then we all start talking about my hair, and before I know it, my shrink-by-proxy is wandering the waiting room looking for me.
She guides me back to her office, which is no longer a closet, and she fights with the light switch to try and lower the lights. I have confirmed that she is a MSW, and I notice she has a backpack with her name on it on a hook inside the door. [hang loose here guys– I have been interrupted from this post several times and it has tense shifts and all sorts of issues that I’m not fixing.)
Now, remember my “Alice’s Restaurant” reference? I had my Book of Kells reusable canvas tote filled with about 25 pages of spreadsheet data, a copy of my legal pad to-do list, and self-report ADHD surveys filled out blindly by Eva and I. As soon as I sat down, my MSW-shrink-by-proxy said, “I’ve talked to [primary care provider] and we believe you would benefit from an evaluation from a psychiatrist.”
Oh? The same one I wanted to see about 14 months ago?
Yes, that one.
I have been told and I knew from the beginning that the likelihood of this program helping me would be slight, and we thought it might be a way to get me further up the food chain. It did not. But that’s okay. I respected her for saying that she could not continue to experiment with medication to guess what I might tolerate and what might help.
I mentioned where my daughter receives her care for her ADHD, and my doctor’s staff made a recommendation on a physician there who might be a good fit.
So she didn’t look at my visual aids.
She sent me back into the waiting room where I intended to do my morning journaling.
A woman broke away from the medical assistant who had been sent into the waiting room to retrieve her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I love your style. And the boots are great.”
“Thanks,” I said. “My business color is bright pink so these are my special event boots.”
“What business are you in?”
“I have a book publishing company, Parisian Phoenix.”
“I lived in Paris, and I worked in fashion for 15 years…”
Do I need to tell you that made my day?
I was about to head out to my car and grab business cards– because I had almost 45 minutes until my next appointment. But then, the medical assistant returned for me. My doctor was almost done with a patient and she thought he might get to me early. He did not.
I think she forgot it was working-with-residents day and that my doctor pretty much does everything over once the resident does it. I forgot that too. I sat in the exam room for more than 30 minutes, and then spent about 20 minutes with the resident. He opened with, “So what brings you in today?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Dr. Mathur has some concerns about my bloodwork and asked me to come in– I believe it was because of my low vitamin D and increasing A1C, but if you poke around in my chart, we can talk about anything you like.”
Short version: He wants me to watch my consumption of sugars/carbs, take vit. D and B12, and exercise. And he gave me all the standard advice. He asked if he could give me an exam. I said sure. He listened to my heart, looked at my knees (not sure why) and then gave me a neuro exam. Which I recognize at this point as I see a neurologist 1-2 times a year.
“Let’s see if you do this better than my neurologist did yesterday,” I said.
And he almost laughed.
He then left to “talk to Dr. [my doc]” and I didn’t see him again for more than 30 minutes. He returned with my doctor and suddenly my doctor and I are talking about veganism, my service dog, the macaroni and cheese at Chick-Fil-A, and the pizza at Spice Crust Pizzeria.
The resident smiles.
I explain to my doctor that it’s the Indian fusion pizzeria down the street. “They use what looks to be high-quality ingredients,” I add. “I bet he’ll agree.”
I gesture to the resident.
“It’s good,” he confirms.
Apparently, the resident is a “smart one,” according to my doctor, and he’s authored papers on vitamin deficiencies.
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said to the young doctor. I swear, he practically blushed.
Then we talked briefly of the medication debacle (Zoloft), and I told him why I had pursued this and the emotional regulation I experienced on Adderall.
But no one looked at my materials…
When I got home, I called the recommended psych practice and they require a good old paper referral. So once my doctor’s office faxes them that, I will get a call from them.
