Seventeen Business Days

Ten business days ago, I made an appointment to see my psychiatrist. It's going to cost me $175 to see her, because she's not covered by my insurance. This is uncomfortable for me, as I already struggle to treat my mental health appropriately, convinced that what I really need is just more will power. Or exercise. Or love. Or faith. Or fill-in-the-blank that means I can do it all by myself.

Except I can't do it all by myself. So I made an appointment to discuss the possibility of starting medication to treat my depression.

For the last month, I've done the things I know and am capable of. Some days I do them really well, some days I don't do them much at all. But I keep trying. I started yoga again. I break my to do list into small steps I can achieve. I stay connected with my support network. I practice good sleep habits. I don't take in mood altering substances. Every day I get up and I try with all my heart to find the will power to step away from the crushing darkness of my depression.

But I'm still here. And in some ways - some very frightening and important ways - the monsters have gotten bigger. It's time to discuss the possibility of pharmacological intervention. And for that, I need a psychiatrist.

The catch is that if I see a pysch that is on my insurance, I will only have to pay $25. I don't need a referral or precertification. Just $25.

And a psychiatrist that will see me.

Three calls to the insurance company. Nearly 20 calls to providers. Of the 20 calls I made, less than half of those calls connected to a person or resulted in a call back response to my message. Of the less than 10 providers I contacted, three were accepting new patients. All three had at least a month wait before there was an open appointment.

I can't wait a month, I told those people.

For 9 of those business days, I knew I had an appointment in the books, and that appointment was creeping closer. Then, on the tenth business day, my scheduled appointment was cancelled. Clerical error. My $175 psychiatrist isn't available on the day of my appointment, I must reschedule.

I do have a new appointment. A week after my original schedule. Seventeen business days after I made the heart wrenching anxiety inducing desperate decision to seek medical intervention, I will be able to see a psychiatrist.

In the world of instant gratification, seventeen business days is a lifetime.

In the world of depression, seventeen business days is unbearable.

I keep wondering: how long can I actually just keep going? How does anyone actually make it through seventeen business days?

My seventeen business days translates into twenty three days of waiting. Just waiting for the appointment to come around.

If my psychiatrist decides that pharmacological intervention is helpful, it will take anywhere from two to six weeks for those medications to work.

And the medication may not work at all.

My reality.

It's the bad place. The no good very bad place where depression holds everything hostage and I forget that it isn't always like this.

I forget all sorts of things. I forget that the laundry needs to be done, or dinner needs to be cooked, or that I need to mail that letter today.

I forget that I was supposed to return a phone call, make an appointment, take a shower.

I forget that I am better when I talk to people. That those people love me. That those people want to hear my voice.

I forget that I am more than this moment in time, that the depression isn't going to last forever.

I forget how to say things out loud.

It's a deep hole in the ground, this place, and it feels like every time I try to climb out my handhold crumbles between my fingers.

I want to live a story, one where each cycle of depression has less control than the one before. A story of forward linear progression. A story of increasing levels of success. A story where eventually I'm not ill any more, ever again.

How Breaking Bread Mended My Heart, A Love Story.

Come, sit. Let me tell you a story.

Some time ago, I met a wonderful family. I could expound on this concept, but it isn't relevant to this particular tale. Let's assume I trust you to believe me, while you trust me to tell the truth. I treasure them, this family. Over time, they moved into my heart. They became part of my family. Then life threw them an unexpected turn and they realized they need to move. Far, far away.

OK. Not 'far, far.' It's 9 hours by car. But a car can get you there. So I suppose that only qualifies as one 'far.'

Regardless, I cannot impulsively decide to have tea around their table (or mine). I cannot visit with them once a week, scattered around the living room, discussing the important things. I cannot meet them at the park and bask in the sun and conversation.

You get the point.

I try to be comforted by the conveniences of modern technology. Text messages, email, social interfaces... these things are available to us and we will use them. It's not a long term comfort. I will miss loving them in person.

I am significantly comforted because I feel that this move is the right thing for them. They need to be 9 hours away (by car, but less than 4 by plane). They will love their new home, they will build new community, they will step into something remarkable. I believe it, and I go on believing it in the face of grief for their absence.

For this is a story of grief.

Loss is a funny thing. Sometimes it will sweep you up and eat you alive and those days the tears won't stop. Other days you almost forget, taking care of the things around you. And everything in between. Each loss has it's own flavor. This grief is radically different from grieving for my mother - and that is Right and Good. But the differences don't allow me to prioritize these events, and that is also Right and Good.

As I was enjoying my morning coffee, I knew my friends were on their way home. They have to take different routes, on different schedules, but they will end up there together. Which means that I will have to learn how to love them from Far Away, a task seeming insurmountable so early in the day. My heart hurt for their absence.

In the grand scheme of life, people flow in and flow out. More recently, another family flowed into our lives. They, too, are remarkable in their own ways. We are starting to understand each other, learning each other's stories, and we are growing in friendship together. Without realizing it, I had scheduled a luncheon with them for today, the day I must accept the reality of Far Away, the day I must keep living Here instead of There.

I panicked a little over the luncheon. I am desperately nervous when I invite others to sit at my table no matter how long (or well) I've known them. I do find it easier to deal with the anxiety the closer my relationship is with these companions - which means I had trouble getting past it today. I was serving an additional four people and struggled with being confident in meeting everyone's taste. In the end, I settled into a smorgasbord, piling my solid wooden tray with deli meats, cheeses, pickles, and crackers. I reached for the bread I had baked recently, and then set it back. In it's place, I picked up the fresh, inviting, wonderfully brown loaf my sister of heart had given me last night during our last scatter around the living room.

Everyone around my luncheon table had a piece of this bread. I had to fetch the loaf from the kitchen to slice more, and then I set the remnants of the loaf on the table beside me at a place of honor. I told my new friends about the bread baker and our fondness for her and her family. And while we snacked on bread topped according to personal style, we found again the flow of life. Bread from the hearth. It feeds the soul. It soothes the heart.

For this is a story about grief. And inside every story of grief, there is a story of healing. Maybe that healing is functional - just enough to get you through the day. But sometimes that healing feels like what was broken has been mended and is stronger than before.