The doctor warned me about nausea. He said, “It’ll be rough for the first four or five days. But try to push through it and it’ll get better.” So here we are, on day two of the four-five. And nausea is an understatement. It isn’t violent nausea, but it is certainly debilitating. Right now, at least.
On the other hand, the doctor was great. He took his time, and listened to everything. Asked me all the questions he needed to, and I felt very confident that he was paying attention to the answers. He really understood everything. And was kind and supportive, up to and including making sure that I wasn’t going to either kill myself or go on a murderous bender where I took out all the people that have been aggravating me. He asked if I wanted to hurt anyone and I said, “Not unless they’re throwing me over the edge. I’m more of a hurt-myself type of girl.” Turns out that is the wrong answer. He quizzed me a little longer before I assured him that I am far too chicken shit to hurt myself and besides… I genuinely like ice cream. And unless he knows for sure that they have that in heaven, I’m not going anywhere.
He laughed. That seemed to pacify him. Who knew that my obvious love for ice cream would save me?
He explained the whole process to me like I was a third grader, which was funny to me. The expressions and noises he made to describe how the brain synapses release and take-up serotonin. It was like a Little Golden Book did medical terminology. I kept expecting Grover to say, “Just kidding… I’m the monster eating all the serotonin in your head.”
He didn’t. Instead, I walked out with a prescription and some hope. He said two weeks before I really started to feel better. I can wait that out. In the meantime… I’ll just drink my 7-11 hot cocoa and watch reruns of the Wonder Years.
I’ll keep you posted.