Stage Dad Confessions

Tonight is Susie’s second night of rehearsal for Bugsy Malone, Jr. at the Davis Center for the Performing Arts.  Since she’s in the theatre right now, I’m over at the library nearby.  I’ve been jotting some ideas in a notebook for an article I’m planning to write and submit for publication soon.  (I won’t say anymore until it actually hits public print.  I’m not supersitious, but it always seems to be detrimental to tip your hand about something like that too soon.)  I was glancing at Nat Hentoff’s excellent book, Free Speech For Me, But Not For Thee: How the American Left and Right Relentlessly Censor Each Other, and I glanced at the Marietta newspaper online.  (I have a morbid streak; I usually go straight to the obituaries when I get the newspaper up on the screen.)  Then, at last, my reservation time came so I decided to log onto LiveJournal, sit down here at the computer, and open a vein.

I had an abbreviated work day today, and I feel a little guilty about it, because there is still an enormous backlog of doctors’ reports in WinScribe that my intrepid co-pilot Lynne and I have yet to transcribe.  I came in at 8 a.m., my usual time, and we had a minor crisis about a docket that was incorrectly charged and then taken down to the hearing rooms.   I did about 2/3 of a psychiatrist’s report–at least it was something fairly interesting!–and at noon I had to cut out for a union meeting.  After the union meeting, I left for the day because I had a doctor’s appointment today.

Not much to report about the doctor’s (shrink) appointment itself.  The bus ride out to his office (at Mount Carmel East’s campus) is long enough that I was able to read quite a bit of Zodiac, Robert Graysmith’s book.  (I’ve owned the Berkley paperback of it for some time, but this is the first time I’ve seriously read it.  Among serious Zodiologists, it’s known as “the yellow book.”)

The doctor has prescribed some blood work for me, since he wants to chart the levels of Lithium in my blood.  I’ll post the results once I take the damn test.  I am not squeamish about blood draws–I used to earn extra beer money donating plasma when I was at Ohio U., and those harpoons they use for plasmapheresis are scary–but I cannot relax until I know the person drawing my blood is proficient with the needle.  I’ve had bad experiences with blood draws at Lower Lights Christian Health Center, where there were so many botched attempts that my arm looked like a heroin addict’s before they got a tube of testable blood.

According to the blood work order, the doctor has diagnosed me as having: 244.9, unspecified acquired hypothyroidism; and 296.35, major depressive affective disorder, recurrent episode, in partial or unspecified remission.  I do feel like the depression is in a bit of remission, but in my case, it’s like multiple sclerosis–relapsing-remitting.  I’m feeling pretty good right now, and I’m enjoying taking Susie to Bugsy Malone, Jr. and I’m looking forward to breakfast at Tommy’s Diner tomorrow before work (Steph’s birthday is tomorrow), but I also know that could change in a flash.  Tomorrow night at bedtime, I could be praying that I won’t wake up come morning.  The depression is something that completely blindsides me when it comes, so I try to be on my guard against it.


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