This Tuesday past, May 10, I expected to be emotional. I was going to my last, last session with my psychiatrist, because she's retiring. I had seen her three months ago and we expected that to be our last meeting, but she set up this date just in case I hadn't yet made an appointment with another psychiatrist.
As it turns out, I did have an appointment with the psychiatrist she most highly recommended, but they were booking appointments 5 months out. I got an appointment for August. When I got to my session with Nancy, she said the psychiatrist she recommended was booked up for a year now and not taking any more new patients. Hooray for me.
Unfortunately, I was still in shell shock after the implosion of the JTI. I figured I lost at least ten friends, if not more. Now I'm telling this to the psychiatrist I've best connected with over the years. About 8 years, I think. I loved Nancy and it was painful to have her ripped out of my life, especially after the loss of the JTI friends. I was soon blubbering. Everything felt raw and hurt. She told me I was grieving and not to make any major decisions over the next few days. And then, fini.
This has been a pattern my enire life. Make some friends. Have a good time with them, from a few months to a few years. Then lose those friends and drift to another group. I don't know why. Freud, I suppose, would say it's fear of commitment, but how do your explain 16 years with someone? 38? 45?
My other happy news came a day later, Wednesday, May 11, when I had an appointment with my kidney doctor. He said I've lost a percent in kidney function, down to 41%. He also said this was not to be unexpected as it's a progressive disease.
No one told me that. I thought that if I followed doctor's orders, I would lose no more ground and maybe even gain some. He said tissue died when my kidneys shut down and that if we could look at it today, we would see the scarring from the dead tissue. There's no way to reanimate dead tissue. Fine, but "progressive?" Even if I follow doctor's orders? They aren't much: control my blood pressure and stay hydrated. Whenever I voice my concern , he refers to all of the diabetic patients who come there in wheelchairs for their dialysis. "At least, you're not like them," he says. Oboy. How reassuring.