Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Yes, I appreciate the irony of saying I don't appreciate chattiness when I'm responsible for frequent and frequently lengthy blog posts. I'm kind of an ass. Sorry.
My psychiatrist is not folksy. I don't know where she's from, but she's a purposeful lady who wants to find out whether I'm especially fucked-up, write notes, then transition into an unnatural chat about goings-on. I both appreciate and fear those moments. This past visit, we talked about what medications would need to be changed to accommodate a healthy pregnancy. She said Xanax is out, so that's one less prescription I have to fill, and said we should cut back on either the Lamictal (a mood stabilizer) or Lexapro (a vanilla anti-depressant). We halved my dose of the latter, with the understanding that I might experience "brain flashes" of some sort, wherein turning my head could cause an imagined, peripheral flash of light. Cool!
My unfolksy, purposeful psychiatrist continued taking notes as she casually said, "And you're planning on losing some weight, right?" Like, "And you'll breast-feed, right?" Um, whore. But it's true: I'm supposed to be all healthy and whatnot if we're going to do this. I've been in the habit of shelving all the baby crap because of Heather's ambivalence, so I guess I wasn't taking any of that seriously. We have all variety of baby-making supplies-- not just the speculum collection or the pregnancy tests, but fertility tea and wildly expensive prescription vitamins. Our kitchen still bears signs of IVF, with dregs of Follistim rolling around in the crisper of the fridge and the last drops of Lupron in a bottle on the window ledge, mainly because we spent too much on them to casually toss them in the trash, whether or not they have any value to us currently.
Distractions, all. None of the novelties will justify me eating Reese's Pieces. I'll have to wait till I'm pregnant and I can blame it on the baby.