I had a rather upsetting experience yesterday, one that frankly I could have done without considering everything else on my plate.
A little background... last month I had a physical for the purposes of getting some paperwork signed by my family doctor for our homestudy. Turned out my own doctor was away so a replacement filled in. She said that the signature would have to wait until my family doctor arrived back. Meanwhile, I proceeded with all the annual check-up questions and threw in the fact that I had a few episodes of anxiety and depression of late (Gee, I wonder why?!) and that I might want to explore the possibility of some counselling---something I've done in the past and has worked well.
So jump ahead to Dec. 4th and I'm sitting in the office with my doctor. A chilly woman on a good day, an ice queen on her worst. So I explain why I'm there (was also there to get bloodwork results on thyroid, insulin and calcium levels). She rifles through my folder and finds the adoption paperwork. She unenthusiastically begins filling out the necessary fields and then she notes the mention of depression on the report filed by the replacement one month earlier. I believe her warm opening on the subject was something along the lines of "So, what's this (the depression) all about?"
I began to explain my occasional anxiousness and tendency to dwell on certain issues, how I sometimes fear it may affect my performance at work etc. WELL, that's enough to make her put the pen down. "I can't fill this out in this period of time. You're going to have to make a 30 minute appointment and I need to find out more about this depression. I really think you should experiment with your higher levels of thyroid medication. Also, I may have to request a psychiatric evaluation.
A PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION!? WHY?
Because I drag my heels every once in a while? Because I haven't had a good laugh in a couple of weeks? Because I obsess about home renos a little more than the average HGTV-aholic? Eat one too many pastries in a weekend?
Gimme a break.
I joke, but really I'm shitting my pants. No matter how normal I feel, or those who know and love me---this woman has the upper hand and I have to let her swing it however she deems necessary. Plus, I've got to bite my tongue when I feel the urge to challenge her or defend myself (something I find very difficult to do when I feel poorly treated or wrong done by).
I'm posting (what else!) another Jessie Wilcox Smith illustration. I love this one because both the mother and baby look so incredibly peaceful in one another's arms. It looks like the baby has just awoken from a nap and the mother has yet to discover the sweet open saucers. Or maybe mom is so at peace, she's about to nod off herself.
Oh, to be that mother.
