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Blake, my hubby, and I are crammed into a little couch that was probably only meant to hold two. I’m halfway on, halfway off. The psychiatrist in front of us is quietly, methodically having us complete new patient forms. He’s part of a major university and the forms are in abundance. The hubby and I are hopefully anticipating that this doctor’s opinion will help us find a way to improve Blake’s mood. Even more so, we are hoping he will see how devastating Blake’s inability to stay awake is, and that he will think of something that we, and his other doctors, haven’t yet.
Blake is really just along for the ride. We talked this over at the dinner table last night.
“Frankly, I’m not hopeful at all,” Blake had said. “I’m not expecting anything.”
So he is here because mom and dad have made the appointment. Now, as we begin to share the information about our son – how he cannot stay awake in the morning no matter how much he sleeps, how he sees little future for himself, how he believes his life has been a wasted sixteen years – I’m feeling a little foolish. I watch as the psychiatrist puts his head in his hands, pulling his hair back from his face. He gets the information he needs from the hubby and I, then he asks to meet alone with Blake.
“Sure,” we both chime when he asks us to leave. I’m curious if Blake will share more than the vague one or two word answers he has been giving so far.
“I think the psychiatrist thinks we’re nuts,” I half-jokingly say to the hubby.
“He doesn’t think we are nuts. He’s analytical. He’s just thinking,” the hubby says.
Within minutes we are back in the office. The psychiatrist explains that he believes Blake has a dysthymic disorder. That is, he is plagued by a low level depression that colors the way he sees the world. It is punctuated by days or moments that are worse, but it is mostly this low level of depression. He does not think that Blake’s OCD is the cause for the depression. He recommends changing medications. He thinks this other one might be more energizing, especially in the morning.
Blake is doubtful. He doesn’t like medication to begin with. He doesn’t want to try another and have it fail, but he is willing to try on a time-limited basis. The psychiatrist wants Blake’s psychiatrist to be the one to prescribe. He invites us to have him call so that they can talk. We drive home with Blake saying it was just like what he thought. Nothing earth shattering or even helpful in his mind. The hubby and I want to believe this can help. We want more from life for our boy.
I text Blake’s regular psychiatrist and tell him the outcome of this consultation. He plans to contact the other psychiatrist. I’m ready to begin the change right away, but I have a nagging thought. He didn’t say it, but I don’t think Blake’s usual psychiatrist likes this idea. Now I’ll need to wait to see if I’m right.