Last Saturday, I got the hell off that zombie depression drug, and feel a little more human. I’m taking an herbal remedy that actually feels good when I take it, for the most part. Immediate results. And doesn’t make me feel like fourth runner-up in a second grade spelling contest.
My throat, although still sore, is slowly, slowly improving. I can swallow more easily, more smoothly. I can talk louder. (Sorry, Matt. I know you liked the new, soft-spoken me.) My constant, dry smoker’s cough is clearing up. My post-nasal drip from hell is getting better.
My guts are off and on. I’m still trying to figure out what I can eat that won’t give me cramps. The baked potato with butter tonight was a BIG FAT NO.
I’m down to one cup of coffee a day (quel dommage!).
I’m on day thirteen of no smoking.
The doctor I saw on Monday wouldn’t really tell me much. And I mean “wouldn’t”. I’m on Medi-Cal, and the literature for my health center literally tells me it’s rationed care. I’m not obviously dyeing of cancer, so she gave me some neck exercises to do, told me to keep doing what I’m doing, and come back in three months. Stopped short of saying my distress is in my head. Did say a lot of my current malaise could easily be caused by quitting smoking.
I almost cried in her office.
I did insist on an MRI and a follow up visit in one month. She said she’d fill out “referral forms” and “someone would call me.”
I miss my old doctor, Sophia. She’d be digging a hole to China to figure out EXACTLY what’s going on. I might call her and pay for an office visit, just to get her two cents.
In the meantime, I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing.
Oh, and get a job.