The Psychiatrist

More from Orlando...

In October of 2003, the protein in my urine was still very, very high. In September, I had lost the job with insurance, but had a small window of coverage so I did the dreaded kidney biopsy. Lupus nephritis requiring chemo. I was devastated, in fact, became suicidal. I did still have the presence of mind to know that trying to figure out how to go to sleep and never wake up, not a good thing, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist. I explained my situation and that I was afraid if I felt this way too long, I would begin to think it was normal. He had two recommendations, Lexapro and a Christian Counselor. The rheumatologist told me that Lexapro was safe to take with my other meds, but I still wasn’t altogether comfortable with that. I did a little research before the appointment. So I asked the psychiatrist how he knew it was a serotonin problem. His answer was that he didn’t know, but that sometimes it helps. I was still skeptical.

Then came the recommendation that I see a Christian counselor. At that point, I already had 35 years of lay professional ministry under my belt. I had run into more than my share of “Christian counselors” along the way. I replied, “I can quote the Judeo-Christian scriptures forward, back ward, inside out and upside down. The last thing I need right now is some kid who went to weekend Bible college for counselors telling me that God never gives us more that we can handle, I am being tested, what doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger, there is a lesson to be learned, or that we all have crosses to bear.” The psychiatrist responded with, “I guess that’s a no.” He made a lame guess at the cause of my depression saying that I must have been caught of guard and not been well prepared about the kidney biopsy.

Here I was, 51 years old, living alone, no job, no income, barely able to take care of myself, on food stamps, with an eviction notice on my door and an estranged husband trying to see me for alimony based on my earning history. Mind you, I had already told him all of this. There couldn’t be a bigger disconnect between therapist and patient. I began to gather my things to leave when he said, “You know, you are very interesting. I would be willing to see you for talk therapy just for what your insurance will pay.” I decided to give it a shot. I left without the prescription and made an appointment for three weeks later.

I did learn one critical lesson from that first visit. Nobody was going to be able to make me feel better emotionally. This was something I had to do myself. I figured that if I was going through this devastation, other people must have gone through it, and some of them probably wrote books. I headed off to the library. I rooted around the internet. And I found quite a few books. At that point, my cognitive impairment was still pretty severe. I would go to the stores and not remember how to get home. After sitting and crying for a while, I would just start driving and hope something would remind me. Anyway, I could not remember what I read from one paragraph to the next. I began making bibliography cards and note cards, just as you would do for a college research paper. As I read and took notes, I began to feel better. Emotions had been swarming around inside of me like a hive of angry bees. The books helped me name them. Some ancient religions held that if you knew the name of a god, you had some power over it. When Moses asks God’s name, the answer is I Am. Moses wasn’t getting the name. Once these hundreds of emotions had names, I had some control over them.

Three weeks later I returned for my appointment. The psychiatrist commented that I looked so much better and how glad he was to see that the Lexapro helped. Quietly and calmly, I asked him to look in my chart. He looked at me quizzically. I repeated the request. When he opened the chart, out fell the prescription. Now he was really perplexed. “What happened?” I leaned forward as if I was going to reveal a phenomenal secret and in a stage whisper said, “I got a HUGE plunger, and got my head out of my rear end.” We talked for a few minutes. I never went back.

(Note: If you feel suicidal, get help, don’t wait for it to get better. Sometimes medication IS the answer.)