Because I remember close to nothing I rely on mnemonic devices and lists on various post-it notes and a calendar to get me through a day. I manage to stay afloat of life in this rickety fashion. The calendar let me know about my upcoming six-week post-partum exam last week. I thought of questions to ask the doctor and then turned them into a snappy mnemonic device. That turned out be be NBC. Easy to remember. N was for the numb stretch across the c-section incision and BC were for birth control. Easy, easy. With the double stroller I clambered my way through doors and elevators in time for the appointment and NBC at hand.
I did get some answers. Numbness is normal. Birth control is ordered. Oh and I also sobbed because the doctor asked me how I was REALLY doing. You know how a question can catch you off-guard and unleash your everything in one helluva heap. Two hours and a pile of soiled tissues later I left with a prescription for an anti-depressant, an afternoon date with a therapist and a diagnosis of Post-partum Depression.
Maybe I do need the drugs and the counseling. But then maybe not. I think I'd be diagnosed with some brand of depression on a good day. I'm not and won't likely ever be the sunniest girl in the room.
Two weeks later:
So, yeah, here I am with two weeks of Zoloft coursing through my veins. I took the pills because I was curious about the results more than I needed the results. I am sure of this two weeks post-in-the-doctor's-office-meltdown. I thought perhaps that with the pills I'd reach some delirious plane of peace and love where belly laughs reigned supreme. Or better yet I'd have 4WD with the feeling of nature and the sense of urban, having a wide range of activities as daily space. Not so much though. I'm still Meredith. The only notable differences have been a persistent headache and, um, very little interest in getting it on.
I shall cease with the medical experiments STAT and whip my ass into shape because it is the exercise that seems to cure me most. Always and foremost.