Yesterday was the day I was dreading, but I was also hopeful at the same time. It was the meeting of a psychiatrist to help with my postpartum depression and I really had mixed emotions.
On one hand I knew that I had to get help so that I could be a better mom to little Monkey, a better wife to my husband, and be able to get through the day without beating myself up, which I’ve gotten pretty good at lately.
But on the other hand, a way more selfish hand, there’s something a little unnatural (at least for me) about talking to a complete stranger about your deepest, darkest moments. I don’t like how it makes me a certain amount of vulnerable either. But I focused on my son and the benefits and made my drive to the psychiatrist’s office.
And no joke, the second I walked in I wanted to turn back around and leave.
Let me paint the picture of the waiting room for you: Pale baby blue walls, 30-40 chairs thisclose to each other, and a very still quiet. The window to the receptionist was closed and there was a sign on it that said “Do not open”. On the wall in frames there were signs that said, “After signing in, take a number”. I thought this was weird and when I arrived I was the first person and no one told me to take a number. I couldn’t even see where the number was that I was supposed to take.
I arrived at noon and my appointment was at 12:30pm. I filled out tons of paperwork and wondered why they were asking such vague questions. There was nothing about pregnancy or postpartum depression and I began to wonder if this psychiatrist was the right one for me.
Next entered in a man who seemed a bit “off”. He started to talk to me, but I grabbed my phone and began twittering. The nurse called him in really quickly and I was left alone in this big, uncomfortably cold waiting room. I still wanted to leave. I just didn’t feel good about being there and there is something to be said about gut instinct. I should learn to definitely listen and follow it.
After waiting for 45 minutes the receptionist called me into room number 5. The room had a desk with no papers on it and two chairs. Definitely not what I would call inviting at all. The receptionist, and I repeat, receptionist, started asking me questions. Some personal about any sexual, emotional, or physical abuse (no) to what my husband’s name, age, how much caffeine he drank.
At this point I thought it was ridiculous that she would be asking such questions about my husband. He wasn’t there and honestly I can’t see why it would matter if he drinks coffee in the mornings. I mean, really.
So I asked with quite a big attitude, “I don’t understand the importance of the questions you are asking. Why does it matter how old my husband is, what his name is, what his age is, how much coffee he drinks, etc?” The receptionist just answered, “The Dr. likes to know.”
Um, okay.
Then she told me that on one of the papers I filled out, I didn’t circle the number, only wrote it in the column on the right. She asked if I would circle the numbers. I told her no because I wrote the numbers in the column and added up my score. She said, “Well, hopefully the Dr. will be okay with this. If not, you’ll have to circle them.”
I said, “Right.”
Next page of paper was all about sex. ”When was the last time you had sex?”, she asked. I told her that it was the day before I had my son – July 22nd. She made a face and was like “Wow, that’s been a while. Do you feel like your sex drive has diminished?”
I wanted to say, “No moron. Again I’m here for postpartum depression, which means that I just had a baby, which means that I couldn’t have sex until I was cleared by my OB, which again, was last Friday.” It was completely pointless and she kept on asking questions like this.
I kept on telling her the same damn thing, “I just had a baby so…”
About 30 minutes had gone by and it was now 1:15pm. The receptionist said that the Dr. should arrive around 2pm and that I was to meet with the male nurse next and then I was free to leave for lunch as long as I was back by 4:30pm.
Um, excuse me? I told her that my appointment was at 12:30pm and that the Dr. was already late since it was 1:15pm. She asked, “Didn’t anyone tell you that she arrives at 2pm?” No they didn’t tell me that because if they did I would certainly have shown up at 2pm instead of 12:30pm.
I waited for about 10 minutes and then the male nurse came to take me to his office for more questioning. I was totally annoyed and pissed off, thinking that I should just walk or run out of the door FAST. But now I was trapped in room number 3 talking to the male nurse.
He asked me to tell him my name, age, why I was there, and where we were. I immediately laughed and asked why he wanted to know this; after all, he was looking right at my file that had this information. I told him my name, age, why I was there (postpartum depression), and where we were (professional building). He told me to try again on that last question. OK, um, doctor’s office? BINGO.
So weird.
Then he asked me what year we were in. I felt like I was a patient that had just had a stroke or passed out. I was not seeing a psychiatrist for anything other than postpartum depression, so wouldn’t you have thought that they could have skipped over their “normal” protocol?
He told me, “I’m going to tell you three words that I want you to remember and I’ll ask you to repeat them to me later on. They are: flower, penny, tiger. Can you repeat them back to me?”
“Flower, penny, tiger” and I added a little eye roll too.
Next he asked who the President of the USA was and I told him “Obama”. Then he asked for the Vice President. Oh shit, I couldn’t remember and I figured this wasn’t going to look good for Mr. nurse. I started giggling because I find it SO funny that I couldn’t remember this. He told me, “take your time”. The only name that was popping into my head was Al Gore and I knew that wasn’t right.
Finally I said, “Joe Biden”. Ding, ding, ding. Correct answer.
Then he said, “Who is the mayor of Houston?” ”Bill White?”
“Who is the governor of Texas?” ”Rick Perry?” Then I said, “Are they still the mayor and governor? I’m not really into politics.”
He said, “Why are you second guessing yourself? Yes, they are.”
Then he asked me to interpret the glass house proverb. Right. I told him that I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about and then I asked if I should know this. He said that mainly older people knew this. Um, okay.
When this mess was over he told me that the Dr. should arrive around 2:30pm. I told him that I was told 2pm earlier and he said that she tends to run late. Oh, wonderful.
He told me that I could wait around in the waiting room or go to lunch and come back before 4:30pm. I told him that I didn’t understand; my appointment was for 12:30pm. He said that since I was a new patient I had to come at that time to meet with everyone and go over paperwork, but that the Dr. usually arrives at 2:30pm and sees patients in the timeframe of that and 4:30pm.
I told him that I would wait in the waiting room. I went into the waiting room and it was packed. I mean packed as in every seat was taken. I sat down in the only seat available and thought that I was in hell.
No joke, there was someone pacing in the room screaming, a guy who looked like he could be a serial killer listening to ghetto rap so loudly that we could all hear, a mom who was talking on her cell phone and paying no attention to her kids, and a couple of women that looked completely out of it.
I did not belong here at all. These people clearly had larger mental issues than postpartum depression.
I texted Tarzan and told him and he said, “Leave and come home. We’ll figure something else out.”
As much as I wanted to leave, I felt like I should stay for this trainwreck to see what would happen next. After all, it was now about 3pm and I figured that my name would be called at any moment.
Around 3:30pm the male nurse called my name and took me to room number 1. He told me to just relax and the Dr. would be in soon. This room was just as “cold” as room number 5. A built-in cabinet with nothing on the shelves was on the wall and there were two chairs: one for me and one for the Dr.
There was also a dead spider on the window sill which added a nice touch to the already dreary place.
The Dr. came in and looked like she belonged somewhere else, definitely not in charge of these patients. She spent five, maybe ten minutes with me and that was it. While flipping through the paperwork, she said, “You wanted to know why we asked questions about your husband? We just like to know.”
The damn receptionist had made a note in my file that I asked why she was asking me those questions!
She asked if I had a support system in place and I told her that I had my husband and that my mom stayed with us for a little while in the beginning. She asked if my mom could come back and I told her maybe.
Then she told me that she was going to increase the Lexapro to 20mg from 10mg and add Abilify to the mix at nighttime.
Now I’m not a Dr. and haven’t spent any time in medical school, but there was something about the way that she was so quick to up my medicine and even throw in a new one that didn’t seem right to me. My purpose in going to see a psychiatrist was not to be medicated; it’s to get help for postpartum depression.
She told me that she wanted to see me again in one week to see how I was doing. I asked her if I would have a set appointment or if I should expect 30 people in the waiting room. She told me that they don’t operate with a set time, but a timeframe between 2pm and 4:30pm.
Basically it’s first come, first serve. She said I sign in, take a number, and wait to be called. It took all I had not to laugh in her face.
I started to ask her a question and she walked out of the room, told me to relax (yeah, right), and that the receptionist would be back with information and samples. I waited for ten minutes and then someone came in with a ton of samples and some information about Abilify and when to take the meds.
I went to the counter and was told that the Dr. wanted to see me again in one week. I made the appointment, but knew damn well that I would not be going back.
I couldn’t get out of that office fast enough. I just about ran to my car and wanted to cry.
Why is it so hard to find good help for postpartum depression? Why did I just waste 4 hours of my time at that psychiatrist’s office and all she wanted to do was medicate me? She didn’t even ask me questions about how I was feeling. The day was such a let-down.
While I was there Tarzan was busy at home calling other psychiatrists to see if I could get in to see them. Everyone has a wait of two-three weeks. Then he saw a name of someone who specializes in postpartum depression, a psychotherapist, and he knew her because he had done some work with her husband. And she lives in the next neighborhood over. She actually trains psychiatrists and OB/GYNs on postpartum depression and has researched for many, many years.
He called her and she moved her schedule around to see us at 5pm. I got home at 4:55pm and we hopped in the car, leaving Monkey with the in-laws.
We went upstairs at the therapist’s house and started talking. It was wonderful, right from the very beginning of this meeting.
(I’ll post a different blog post on what happened because it’s long.)
You might also want to read:
- Six week postpartum appointment and going to a psychiatrist for postpartum depression
- Being real with therapy, postpartum depression, family, & friends
- Postpartum depression therapy appointment: Success!
- Therapist appointment, torticollis, and some postpartum depression talk too
- Past memory of postpartum depression, breastfeeding Monkey, & my dog
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