Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Chapter II - The Pool of Tears


Clinique, Estee, MAC, Bobbi Brown, and Max Factor have all failed women miserably with one simple design flaw. There is no brand of mascara on this earth that will Stay Put when a man, particularly your doctor, renders you to tears. With the first prickling of moisture under the lower lids, a dam is opened that sends first a trickle, followed by a mudslide of black goo sliding down your cheeks, dispersing in a sloughy mass across your jawline. If pushed aside, it makes permanent Sharpie-like lines pointing to your ears. Just what I need, big black lines underlining my puffy red eyes, pointing at my ears.

Down the rabbit-hole, Alice got away with the pool of tears by knowing a) how to swim, and b) she was too little to wear make-up.

As opposed to my beloved-Alice, I cannot swim, and I was completely unprepared for my emotional unraveling during my visit to Dr. Canada yesterday. His first clue something was wrong might have been the fact that I was curled up in a little ball in a corner chair when he walked into the room. His first mistake was asking "So, JATC, what's going on?"

Bawwwwwwwwlllllllllllllll, SNIFFF, SOB. The dam broke. Repeating the story as told to Dr. Australian Shepherd at the emergency clinic on Friday was more than I could bear. Soon, Dr. Canada and I were floating in an office full of tears, stethoscopes, blood pressure cuffs, and tongue depressers. Note: Those nasty crank-em probe thingies they use for "female" examinations? Don't Float.

In true Alice fashion, in order to dry out and re-group, Dr. Canada had me tell stories. Dr. Canada is a sensible sort. He looked at my notes about feeling like I was going to die, he listened to my tales of disassociation, and he carefully read through my friend PN Melissa's email that I printed for him. And then he said I was NORMAL. Say wah? On which planet? Dr. Canada is now Dr. Mars. Oh. I'm normal for someone with severe anxiety. Okay.

He addressed my great fear first. I am not likely to do anything while disassociating that I wouldn't do cognitively. Whew! I was really getting worried about telling one of our VPs at work what I Really Think. Career limiting. I also was a little worried about driving into a tree. Life limiting. He ordered up a thyroid test. (Thank you Melissa). He re-jiggered some of my meds. For the time being until we move on to Chapter 3 (The Caucus Race) I'm going to be somewhat sedated. He ordered me up a psych evaluation just in case he's missing something - he thinks there's a possibility that this might be PTSD related.

And he told me to keep the dog with me. :-) I'm luckier than Alice. Dinah The Cat had to stay home.

3 comments:

Mary Moore said...

Get well. I'll be visiting my doc in a week or so for sort of the same thing.I'll let you know how it goes.

Patience-please said...

Oh! You are luckier than Alice! You get a whippet and she had a whacked out substance addicted caterpillar! Plus, the dogs must be elated at the chance to LIVE in a rabbit hole!
The Warburton Whippets salute you!

Jenn And The City said...

"When you have to turn into a chrysalis...and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel a little queer, won't you?"
"Not a bit," said the Caterpillar

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Jenn and the City

An Award

An Award
Thanks Patience!

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