A Warm Welcome....

It's been 10 days since my last entry. This is a post I have no interest in recalling or relaying....My first (and only) visit with the shrink. I call him this not to belittle or degrade the profession. It's just that, as I sat there with the doctor, I felt myself shrinking. If I could have shrunk completely out of sight, so much the better. I learned instantly that there was one word to describe the man - BLUNT. Maybe I needed to hear what he said. He laid things on the line to me (although all he knew about me was what my G.P. had told him). I was told in no uncertain terms that I was sick, I was making myself sicker, and there was no way I could get better without becoming an "inpatient" in his 14 day program. In my state, I became easily convinced that he must be right. All the same, something inside my shrunken head kept telling me he was full of SHIT and yes, he does bear a strange resemblance to Dr. Phil. I DON'T LIKE DR. PHIL, (and I liked this guy even less).

As I looked around the "facility", I soon realized that this place was no celebrity rehab!! No palm trees or gourmet food here! In fact, I quickly determined that this place more resembled the Bates Hotel. Quickly tiring of the dressing down I was receiving from Dr. Bates, I allowed my mind to wander and I envisioned Anthony Hopkins in an old woman's wig, sitting in a rocker in front of a window at the Bates Hotel. I saw Janet Leigh in the shower with some sort of red substance running down the drain. I was rousted from my daydream when Dr. Shrink announced that he was going to check to make sure my insurance would cover my stay in this lovely establishment. I returned to the waiting room.

It wasn't long before the doctor re-appeared to announce that the insurance would only pay for an 8 day stay. The program was 14 days long and no, I couldn't just stay 8 days. However, he decided that it would be no problem for me to pay for the other 6 days myself. I knew then that he definitely WAS full of shit (and crazier than I was). I promptly left the building, the shrink, his "nurse" and Alfred Hitchcock to themselves.

The Adventure Continues....

It was one week later and time to return to the doctor. I crawled back out of bed. After a cursory brushing of hair and teeth, along with a haphazard "spit bath" (see how depressed I was?), I headed out. This time, my doctor told me they had scheduled a session with a psychiatrist and I was to meet with him 2 days later. I asked the doctor if there was anything she could give me for my cough. I honestly don’t remember her exact response, but I think it was something like “ Well, let’s do something about your drinking first. I think you will then see a marked improvement in your cough”. It seemed there was no serious concern about my cough or any desire to consider my theories that the damn cough was what LED to the drinking and depression. I made my way back home and crawled back into bed.

Two days later. I’m looking for the psychiatrist’s office. The directions I had received were “It’s the building right behind the hospital”. I drove directly behind the hospital, parked my car and walked up to the door. I believe the sign on the door said “Panhandle Health”. “Interesting”, I thought. “Why would a psychiatrist have an office in the building that housed health inspectors? Perhaps the good doctor was moonlighting.” My fogged mind somehow came to the conclusion that this was most likely NOT the correct building, so off I went, on foot, to find the man my doctor seemed certain would change my life. As I walked, my mind began to “speak” to me. “Oh wonderful”, it said. “Not only are you lost in this maze of practitioners, you are now going to be LATE for your first appointment with this guy. Way to make a positive first impression, girlfriend!”

After a few more minutes of aimless meandering, jumping across a few berms and climbing a small fence, I found the building I was looking for and discovered that his office was housed in what I believe was the local "rehab facility". I gave a fairly agressive tug on the door handle and immediately felt my body being hurled forward against the door with my head following milliseconds later. When my brain quit slamming itself against my skull, I realized that by golly, the door was locked! Only fairly dazed, I noticed that next to the door was a sign indicating that if I wanted to go to “area A”, ring the doorbell. If I was headed to “area B”, I was to stand there until someone saw me and came to the damn door! I considered my options and patience level (on a scale of 1 to 10, I am about a –5). I selected option #1. I did this because I knew that if I chose option #2 and stood there for more than 30 seconds, I would begin to dance, make faces or start swearing like a sailor to get someone to notice me and let me in. I further discerned somehow that option #2 would most certainly land me in an area consisting of rubber walls and a straight jacket. I rang the bell.

Momentarily. a stern-faced woman appeared at the door. “Are you here to check in?”, she asked. As I was forming my response, which was “oh HELL no”, she said “Oh, you’re here to see Dr. Phil. YOU rang the wrong bell”. I was beginning to wonder why on earth they ever let me out on the streets at all – EVER. (It also occurred to me that I was quickly earning eligibility to ride for free on a short bus, which would have taken me right to the front door of the building I had just run the gauntlet to find. (Note to self...check this out. You might be able to save a little money at the pump!)

The Adventure Begins....

My, time flies when you're having fun! Let me give you an update since I last posted to this blogsite (you might want to get a vessel of your favorite beverage & some snacks before you begin reading).

I went to DS for a second time. Upon greeting me, she mentioned that she had thought a lot about me since our last meeting, which immediately set me to wondering about HER. After chatting for awhile, she decided the best thing for me was to make an appointment with my physician, tell her everything I told my counselor and go from there. Since it was pretty much lights out in my head at the time, I agreed, went home and made an appointment. A few days later, I crawled into the doctor's office and after they called me into one of the "rooms", I slithered and collapsed onto the "table" to wait.

After what seemed to be a few months later, my doctor (not actually a doctor, but a P.A.), came bouncing into the room, all cheery and almost very pregnant. She asked me how I was doing and I proceeded to tell her the sordid details. I explained that my chronic cough had developed into the pulmonary equivalent of the elephant man, sending people screaming into the streets each time I had an "episode". For this and other reasons, I felt I was becoming more than a bit depressed (This idea occurred to me when I realized I'd been in bed so long the seasons had changed). Finally, I confessed that I had developed the ability to chug 5.5 liters of Peter Vella wine every one and one-half days. When I looked up at her it occurred to me that she may have been in a mild state of shock, since her mouth was open as wide as humanly possible. She managed to stammer something that sounded like "o...k", "I need to go talk to the doctor" and immediately fled down the hall.

Another couple days passed and she reluctantly re-entered my room. She announced that she thought I may benefit from a 14 day stay in the "hospital" and that she needed to get some blood work on me. She left the room again, this time informing me that the nurse would soon be in to draw my blood. Things began to move swiftly now and after only a few hours, the nurse waltzed in, laden with her little tote full of needles and vials to take my blood. She was a friendly older lady who attempted to strike up a conversation with me until she saw my face. Leaving the room immediately then became priority one for the poor thing.

As I was finishing the epic War and Peace, the doctor returned for a third time. She reported to me that the blood tests revealed my liver count was way up, my kidneys weren't doing well, and I was suffering from anemia. Did I want to go to the hospital right then, she asked with a fervent hope in her voice. I replied that I really did NOT want to go to the hospital. I had a few things to tie up (not the least of which was calling Wall St to inform them that profits in the Vella Wine Corporation were about to take a serious downward spiral). I pled with my doctor to give me one week to try and end my affair with Peter Vella on my own. She reluctantly agreed to let me do this, put not before she wrote out a prescription for something to reduce the number of pink elephants I would surely see while carrying out my little "experiment". I made an appointment to return to her office in one week and unceremoniously crawled home.