Post-Appointment Depression

photo by Ron Place

I walk in smiling. I'm not necessarily keen on meeting new people, especially new people who are doctors, but I know that after the first appointment they are no longer new and every subsequent appointment will be easier.

I walk in smiling. I'm grateful to be seeing this doctor. I'm hopeful that some benefit will come from the appointment. Or at the very least, I will be heard.

I walk in smiling. I like people. I want to be a blessing to everyone I meet. And I know that sometimes a genuine smile from one person is all it takes to turn a person's day around.

I walk in smiling. I know how this is going to end. But I walk in smiling.

I wait. I do it with patience, even while I wonder what the point is of showing up 15 minutes early, as requested, when I will end up waiting in a colorless room for 45 minutes beyond my appointment time before they get to me.

I wait with patience.

I speak. I try to be clear, even as I use unusual simile's and metaphors to describe things that I wish a person could just see or feel for themselves so I didn't have to try to explain. I answer their questions as accurately as I can, despite knowing that the answers to many of their questions are going to be what helps them form a picture of me as a person, of me as a patient, of me as whatever it is they think I am. Accurate or not.

I listen. I take it all in, even when I disagree with the assessment being shared. Even when I feel upset by the insinuations. Even when I only partially understand the things being discussed. Even when what is being said is not what I want to hear.

I thank. Regardless of the outcome, I'm grateful. I'm thankful that there are people in the world with the ability and desire to learn and understand things that are beyond my own knowledge base and even further beyond my interests.

I leave. I climb into the van and close the door. Mr. Amazing starts the engine and I listen to its hum and we pull out of the parking space and head back toward home. I rest my head against the seat back and watch all the people driving by in their cars heading to who-knows-where. I stare at the trees as we zip past them on the road.

I hold back tears. Some of them escape and trace the lines of my cheek, my nose, my chin.

I blink. I think.

At home I write. I write to the bloggers I've connected with who have had every experience I have had and then some. I write to people who tell me I believe you. I write to myself, for myself, on this blog, hoping that writing will come through for me again. Will help me see and think.

And I cry. Little bits at a time because letting it all out at once will only make it hard for me to breathe.

It doesn't seem to matter whether the appointment goes well or poorly. Whether I like the doctor or not. Whether I'm believed or written off as a psychological case. Whether we find something to do or try or not. Regardless, I walk out with post-appointment depression.

I walk in smiling and I leave in tears.

I'm not writing this because I want people to feel sorry for me. I'm writing this so people will understand. So that, if a person ever finds herself in a place like this, she won't wonder if she's normal for feeling this way. I'm writing this because otherwise it just stays inside of me. And because I believe that the sad parts of ourselves deserve their due attention. They deserve to be cradled and cared for. Acknowledged.

And just maybe, if I write about this, it will start to reshape itself and light will stream in and shine on all the dark spots, and the light will magnify and spread and color will return and then, just maybe, probably, almost certainly, I'll be able to walk in to the next appointment smiling once again.