Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I’m sitting in the middle of my bed, with my yorkie snuggled up next to my left hip, trying to write while NCIS Los Angeles is on. You’d think I’d know better.
My concentration was totally blown during the first scene with that close up of LL Cool J. The guy is BUILT. I don’t know why I even attempted to write now. Even though I’ve watched almost every episode of NCIS LA I bet I can’t tell you one story line. I have to blame it on Mr. Cool J’s incredible hotness.
Ok, commercial’s on. Time to tell you about my search in less than two minutes. It’s been nine days, not that I’m counting, since my second psychiatrist in six months told me she was closing her private practice.
Most of you, I’ll bet, spell panic P A N I C, for some “no ice cream” means panic, for others it might be the most terrifying of all creatures...the chupacabra or, perhaps, a newborn baby, take your pick. For me panic usually means running low on Xanex, but for the last nine days it’s been the thought of not having a psychiatrist.
Whoops. LL Cool J and his massive arms are back on, give me a few minutes here to catch my breath.
Ok, let’s try this again. The Red Lobster commercial doesn’t quite have the same appeal. Where was I? Oh yes. I’m in full force panic mode. See, having a psychiatrist that really understands bipolar disorder II is one of the most important things in my life.
They hold the magic prescription pads. The ones that, in the correct hands, keep my world in order. Now that I seem to have found the right “cocktail” of medications I’m scared to freaking death that I’ll find some diploma mill doctor that will want to try to change things, “simplify” things, make me their own.
In the last nine days I’ve made well over 100 phone calls only to hear “sorry we’re not accepting new patients,” or “our first available appointment is in November.” Sometimes I was lucky enough to speak to someone whose first language was English (I was beginning to think that computer tech support and psychiatrists were in cahoots somehow).
Finally today, after charging my phone twice and eating an entire quart of blueberries, at precisely 7 minutes after 5, I got a return phone call. It was from a female (score one), English was her native language (score two), she’s not too far from where I live, meaning I don’t have to drive into the vortex of the universe called downtown Portland (score three, four and five). She also had an appointment available next Tuesday. Screeching halt. RED FLAG.
Just as I was about to ask why she had an opening so soon, when everyone else was totally booked, she seemed to have read my mind.
“I just dropped a major insurance panel so my practice has opened up. Being a health care provider has recently gotten a whole lot more difficult.”
Ok, with that answer she scored six through ten. So next Tuesday at one o’clock sharp I have an appointment to see if we’ll be a good fit, as if I really have a choice at this point.
But I feel good about it. I think I can return my panic mode to where it belongs. It’s not with ice cream, it’s not with chupacabras (I could totally use one of those from time to time), it’s with the mere fleeting thought of the possibility, though totally impossible, of once again being pregnant.
That panic is something I can, after a hysterectomy, totally live with.