A Letter To My Doctor

The last two months have been more stressful than any other time in my life, and I’ve had some shady moments in my past, I promise you.

The fear of not knowing, that gray place called ‘maybe’ has worked its way into my brain to the point of self medicating. Yes, I am an alcoholic (I’m inebriated now), but recently, the fear of not knowing has me soaking deeply into bottles of whiskey unlike anything you may have seen before. I don’t have a large social circle. And the few I do call upon when frightened are beginning to feel exhausted themselves.

I tried to get the CT scans (three times), but every time I was there, they said there was a clerical error and couldn’t be done that day. Fine. I don’t mind. But, I don’t have transportation, I’m agoraphobic and no one had the decency to call and tell me I shouldn’t even bother coming. My final visit they were able to do the chest X rays. “If you can do the X rays, then why can’t you slap me on the slab and do the CT???”

I asked them to add to my notes how pissed I was.

The blood test were scheduled, but my insurance company dropped me (again through a clerical error), and when trying to do the good faith estimate, I was given a PDF sheet of all costs. Not knowing what my order was for, I simply couldn’t pay for the test.

Dr. Pinero recommended I get my medical marijuana card since I don’t care for pharmaceuticals. That’s when they found out I was dead on paper. My social security number no longer exists. I haven’t filed taxes in the last couple of years because I haven’t made any money. They gave me my card, but I can’t go to a dispensary.

It’s ok. I have a friend who has been supplying me with marijuana. He’s not a friend, really, but more family. A good man, whom I have made my living will. But, now I have to find a way to let the IRS and SSA know that I’m very much still here.

The best part of my days are when I’m knitting my own socks while watching Murder, She Wrote. Then dancing to Siouxsie and the Banshees with my headphones on. And a little Nizter Ebb, a touch of Front 242, a hint of Depeche.

The depression evaluation had me asking questions of myself. Is there something in my head that has me clinging to vices, the very vices that are causing health problems? Is that all there is to this? Is this where I am? Is that really what this whole health scare is about? Just something locked in my head that has me in self destruct mode?

I have a definite status in the knitting community, but gave it all up to tend to my husband, to make sure that he had every possible avenue for success, that he wouldn’t have to worry about anything other than making money. He’s never had that sort of graciousness before. He has never had anyone believe in him. So, I tried to keep the house cleaned, the bills paid. And it became too much to realize that my days were filled with doing laundry and dishes and in the process doing nothing for myself.

Do I resent the decision? Of course not. I helped a man elevate himself to a place he never thought he’d be. I helped make another man better. I showed him how brilliant he was.

But, in the process, I pinned myself down. And since then, I’ve not done much for myself. No self care, no grooming, nor even bathing on occasion. I drink all day, stay dirty, and welcome him when he comes home with my heart bursting at the seams knowing I’ve done something good for someone else, but have screwed myself at the same time.

So, how do we fix this?