Day Five: No Tears

The days fly past and my appointment with Dr. Alt is upon me before I realize it. As he calls me back, I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to shake off the anxiety that has been with me since Pendragon mentioned that I needed to consult with him to talk about the possibility of medication. It doesn't really work and the knot in my chest tightens a bit as I follow him to his office. His office is cozy and interesting with a myriad of things all over it to look at as I sit down on the cushy sofa across from his desk. He shifts a stack of what look like patient files from one part of his desk to another, removes mine off the top, and opens it to the first thing inside it. He peers through the bifocals perched on his nose, reading silently for a few seconds and then turns his attention to me. "So," he says in his pronounced German accent, "I spoke with Pendragon and he said you've been having symptoms of the depression, hmm?"

"Yes, I have." I reply, a bit uncertain if I ought to say more or if he is simply looking for confirmation. He glances down at the page in front of him again and then looks up. 

"You are feeling depressed, not sleeping, or what?" he asks and I know somehow know this is my cue to tell him what symptoms I'm having. I go through the litany, but leave out the thoughts about taking too much Xanax. He scribbles some on the page in front of him and nods. "He said you had had some suicidal thoughts too?" Damn you, Pendragon! I say nothing, but nod and focus my attention on a framed print of some artistic masterpiece hanging on the wall opposite me. He scribbles again and nods. "So would you say you have these thoughts often?" I fight the urge to get up and walk out. I do not want to talk about this. 

"No, not often. Really just the once," I reply, trying to keep my voice even. He questions me about what I think caused those thoughts, whether or not I had an actual plan, and what I am feeling now with regard to those thoughts. I answer the questions mostly honestly, but fear of what he might say if I confess the plan I had thought of causes lies to spill forth from my mouth instead of the truth. I know, even in the moment, that I am not helping myself by being less than truthful, but I cannot make the words come.

After he is satisfied that he has gotten enough information, he consults his chart again and for a few moments, all I see is the top of his graying head as he reads, flips pages, and flips back again to the first page. All this page flipping and reading tells me he is looking for a medication I haven't tried yet. My heart sinks into my stomach. I don't want meds again. He finally starts talking about medications. He asks me if "we" have tried first this med and then that one and then another. We talk about how effective the meds I've taken before have been and he asks me about the possibility of trying the very first antidepressant I ever took a second time. I am reluctant given that its effectiveness wore off within about a year of taking it. He explains that sometimes an old medication can be effective a second time if there has been enough time between cessation and the new trial of it. Given that it has been a good 7 or 8 years, he says that he feels like it might be time to give it another try. It makes sense to me, but I am not hopeful. Still, I agree that it might be a good idea to try it in lieu of looking for another med that may or may not work at all. He assures me that if it doesn't work, we can try something else. Yeah, I don't think so. If this doesn't work, I don't want to try meds again. Since we have reached an agreement on the best course of medication, he bends his head again to scribble a prescription on the pad in front of him. As he is writing, I close my eyes and exhale slowly, trying not to audibly show my frustration and lack of enthusiasm for this particular plan. He tears off the script and rises from his desk chair to usher me out of the office. He hands it to me along with another piece of paper that instructs the check out clerk to make me another appointment in two months' time. As we walk back toward lobby, he says to let him know if I have any problems with it or it isn't having any effect after a couple of weeks. I don't hear half of what he is saying. I am annoyed and suddenly find that I can't stand the sound of his voice or the sight of his face. I really just want to go home and sleep while our youngest daughter takes her usual midday nap.

As I walk to the car, the prescription paper and appointment reminder clutched in my hand, I feel the irritation I had at the end of the appointment growing into a fully fledged anger. I find that I am actually trembling as I get into the car and start out of the parking lot and it is all I can do to not roll the window down and fling the prescription out into the wind. I curse several times rather loudly, find the angriest song I can muster on a CD, crank the volume and drive on. At some point amidst the wild clamor of music and the frustration in my head, I feel the tightness in my chest increase to the point where I am normally bawling like a baby, but there are no tears. I turn down our street and pull into the drive way and the realization hits me that I haven't cried since this began. I have felt all the feelings that normally elicit copious amounts of tears and have several times felt so overwhelmed by emotion that I should have, by all rights, been crying what I like to call "the big ugly cry" but it has been completely absent. Crying has always come easily to me -- happy tears, nostalgic tears, tears of love, tears of pain, tears of anger -- and suddenly, it has been almost five months and I have not shed a single tear. This reality shocks and simultaneously scares me so much that I sit in the car for several minutes trying to collect myself enough to unbuckle the seat belt and go inside. Oh God, what is happening to me? 

I go inside and simply tell Gray, "he gave me a prescription for Paxil." Gray nods and says he thought I would probably get a prescription. He can see the sadness in my face and the defeat in my body language and pulls me into his arms for a long hug. This tender gesture would normally elicit a fresh stream of tears, but instead of tears, I feel a heartbreakingly empty ache and hug him tighter with a strained but deeply meant, "Love you." He kisses me gently and says, "Love you too, hon." I want to cry and cry and cry, but no tears come, only a shaky exhaled breath. 

Gray squeezes me in another hug and then we part a bit, still touching as we stand in the living room. He needs to leave for work and GB interrupts our moment by pulling up on the edge of the table, her 7 month old legs a little bit shaky, but getting stronger. She wobbles a little, plops down on her bottom, and looks up at us both with an unmistakably self-satisfied grin. Something deep inside me tries to automatically grin back at her adorable, chubby little face, but the numbness has intensified and all I manage is a weak, "come here, baby girl" as I bend down and scoop her up for a cuddle and kiss. As I set her back down in the floor to play with her toys, Gray grabs another gulp of coffee and sets the mug down, ready to go to work. We exchange another hug and kiss and with a kiss for GB, he is out the door. 

I realize as the door shuts behind him that I don't want him to go. The constricted feeling in my chest migrates to my throat and I am sure that the onslaught of tears I know must be behind that feeling will now issue forth from my eyes and release all this pent up tension and numbness inside me. I inhale and exhale shakily several times and swallow. There are no tears, just this horribly overwhelming pain. I want to die.