The Other One

the twilight zone

It's been nearly 9 months since I moved in with my mom, and my mental health has tanked to the point where I am feeling desperate. I'm so alone in this. Ain't no one coming along to step up to the plate. Ain't no one coming to my rescue, no respite in sight. There is only me and there is only this and there isn't any other reality. It reminds me a lot of the old days with Jonah, no way out, no way through.

I LOSE  

If I had a better relationship with her, maybe it wouldn't feel so much like prison. If she would see a doctor and we had a diagnosis to work from, maybe she'd be doing better. Maybe I'd have some sense of how much longer I have to be here. Maybe something would change. For the better, for worse, hell, I don't even care at this point. Change itself would be a welcome thing.

I want to write about it but there's never any time. It's taken 4 hours to get this far.

There's always something to cook, or clean, or launder. A breathing treatment to administer. A commode to empty.

On Sunday we fought and it was so bad that I decided that the very next day I would start calling agencies for help. Finally get a doctor in here, so I can tap into services. But guess what happened? Every last place I called said some version of "unfortunately, there is a 10-12 month long waiting list and we're not putting anyone on it at least until January." One place even said in order to have a doctor come, we need a diagnosis. That's a real laugh. How does one obtain a diagnosis without a doctor?

In a moment of what (at the time) seemed brilliance, I thought to call my awesome, caring, compassionate GP, Neil Mitnick. When the receptionist answered, I explained my situation and she thought maybe one of his nurses could help me, so I was transferred to Sarah, who I don't know.

I told Sarah my story and asked if she could help. She said she was not comfortable speaking to me about someone who isn't a patient of their office.

I have to pause to tell you here that I'm pretty sure Nurse Sarah was enjoying this; her voice twisting the knife.

I think I said something like "this is ridiculous. Can I please just talk to Dr. Mitnick?" She said no, the doctor doesn't call patients.

Well he used to, lady, and not that long ago.

I asked if I could email him, then. Nope. Can't do that either.

I asked if I could book a telehealth visit with the doc. Nope. He doesn't do that anymore.

She said I could come in person but the next available appointment is in the last week of October -- and oh, by the way, your insurance may or may not pay for it because it's not an appointment in reference to the patient.

I just hung up.

Am I in the Twilight Zone???  

It would be faster and more efficient were I to pen a letter and mail it to him via the Pony Fucking Express than it was for me to pick up the phone and call.

I can't talk to my doctor.

Is this just how it is now? The bitch of it is I KNOW DAMN WELL Dr. Mitnick would talk to me. He's given me advice before. Should I just book the damn appointment under the guise of some bullshit malady and see what he says in late October?

I'm out of options. It would be better for everyone involved if I snapped my mother's bird arm in two and called 911 to take her to the damn hospital. She'd get a doctor, maybe even a diagnosis, and I'd get some help. It'd put the fear of God in her too, kind of like a bonus.

But I might also go to jail for elder abuse, so there's that.

I have been listening to Pema Chodron and Tara Branch, both Buddhist ladyteachers. Radical acceptance, the art of the pause, how to meet the fear and offer love to the child you once were. It's good stuff, sound teachings.

But right now I just want to go to bed.