My husband's Dr recently changed his depression medication. So on Monday, he hit the big breakdown I have been expecting for months now- maybe closer to a year. And off to the Emergency Department we went.
Hospitals are obviously not a happy place- even if you are not depressed. To their credit, once past the admitting red tape, we only had to wait about 20-30 minutes to see a psychiatrist. The hospital nearest us is in a low-rent area, so the waiting room was full of the usual poverty-striken crowds- a guy being treated for addiction, a teen mother with her gaggle of half-dressed children, and another ranting that no one had given her a voucher for a free taxi home,and so on. I also think that tuning the TV to medical drama soap operas in a waiting room is generally a bad idea. But maybe that's just me. Since we had never been to this hospital before, I first had to go through the process of getting his registered as a new patient.
"Can I help you"?
Me;"Yes- my husband is being treated for depression- he was on Effexor but they have just swapped him to Pristiq, and he's had a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"Where is your husband?"
Me; "He's the full grown man man sitting on the floor behind me curled up into a ball crying and sobbing so loud you have to shout at me"
"Well, what's wrong with him?"
Me "He is having a breakdown and needs to see a psychiatrist"
"But what is wrong with him right at this particular moment?"
Me; "He is unable to speak or function in any manner, and he wants to die- now get me a damned psychiatrist"
"Is he aggressive?"
Me; "No, he is not aggressive- he is just... broken. Please help"
After a few more minutes of this, ~I~ wound up getting aggressive, at which point a supervisor come along, took one look at us and directed us to go sit down and she would send a psychiatrist out to collect us shortly.
A while later they discharged him to go home, after a counselling session wherein they decided the best thing for him was to maintain his routine and not disrupt things too much. Which would have been fine, except that on Tuesday, I had to pack him onto a plane to go back to work- at a mine site 4000 km's from here, in the middle of a big fucking dessert with no Dr's on site, only a nurse.And then the fucker forgets to check in with me at night. He called today to tell me he was to tired to talk and fell asleep right away, and to say that he had texted- the texts still have not shown up. He sounds more together. But I won't feel comfortable until he is back in my arms alive and breathing.
I'm so scared. I wish i could fix him. Then again, I tried to fix my first husband too and could not help- he got better only after we were no longer together. Go figure, huh? I'm one of the strongest and most cheerful people I know, and yet, I keep making my men depressed.
And on to other news';
We've listed our home, finally. it goes to auction on May 1st- this is a good thing. it's too small, it costs too much, and it keeps us financially tied to his father, from whom we wish to distance ourselves. So now I have 10 days to make the place view-able. Which will entail renting a storage unit, boxing up and storing everything that is not absolutely essential, clean the place top to bottom, and do a few handyman bits around the place (Re-install a cupboard, paint, etc).
Last weekend we drove to a darling friend of our's property, 5 miles into the outback, and left at her place our two large friendly-to-the-point-of -possibly-being-irritating dogs. The place absolutely echoes now in their absence.
And with all this stuff ahead of me to do, today it is raining so hard that I have decided the best thing for me is to curl up in bed with a book.
