Sorry, even Blue Gal has her limits. There is no way I am posting this image to my blog. Go get it.
Douglas has an open meme up about telling a medical story, so here goes. This story has two parts:
One of my worst faults, I hate to admit it, is that I can be very insensitive. May be borderline Asperger's, 'cause I can't flirt for real, but whatever. Anyway, I was seeing my infertility doc who put me on some Prozac to counter the mood swings associated with Clomid (yep, take one pill to counteract the problems with the first pill. Don't get me started.) I made a joke about happy pills, to her face. She gave a pained look, just for a moment, and I realized, oh God, she takes the happy pills herself. And she has had her own battle with infertility, which is one reason her practice is so committed and successful. Shit.
Fast forward a couple years and my second kid, conceived without "help." My first child was diagnosed with high functioning autism in May of 2002, and my daughter was born in July. The stress of both events lead to the worst depression I have ever, ever, had. On my 39th birthday a couple weeks later, my dad called me to wish me happy birthday, and I just sobbed into the phone, "this is the worst birthday of my entire life." He made me promise to talk to my doctor about depression. So I promised.
The next morning baby 2 had a pediatrician appointment. I'm sitting there morbidly depressed listening to him tell me the baby is fine and gaining weight normally and I hate to say this but I just did not give a shit at that moment about my baby, at all. Nursing her, knowing that my body was keeping her alive, was the only thing keeping me alive at that time. That's an important point, because often post partum moms retreat from their babies and the babies lose weight or worse, moms in really bad cases actually do harm to their babies. The fact that my husband made me promise I wouldn't kill myself was the other reason I was still alive. Yeah, it had gotten that bad. Anyhow, the pediatrician noticed something was wrong and that probably had something to do with the fact that I was crying? I sat there and remembered my dad had made me promise to talk to my doctor, and I said to myself, oh whatever, here is a doctor. So I told pediatrician I was depressed, as if he could not see that.
First thing pediatrician did was make me promise I would call my ob/gyn today and talk to her about this. Then pediatrician started asking me questions and after the third or fourth question I remember saying to myself, "This man is screening me for suicide. Oh, who cares." So when he was done asking me these questions, he gave me my baby and said he'd be right back and he stepped out in the hallway and called my ob/gyn himself. I must not have given the right answers.
So I saw her that afternoon and she gave me sample Prozac right there in the office. It was like someone turned on a light. I was better, almost right away, and I only needed it for six weeks or so. I went on it has a preventative measure when baby 3 came along and that went fine (by that time my son was 6 and doing really well and Mom was over the shock of his situation).
The lesson here is to tell people when you feel depressed and get help. I am grateful to all those MEN making me make them promises too. Pediatrician may have saved my life.