Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Better. So Much Better.

It’s kind of amazing how you can feel the very minute the meds saturate your blood stream or your brain chemistry or whatever the hell it is they do.

On February 13, I saw a new doctor who switched me from Zoloft to Wellbutrin, after a long discussion, in an attempt to alleviate my freaking annoying night sweats and also because Wellbutrin often has the lovely side effect of weight loss.

I switched meds that day – there was no real point in tapering off my 50 mg of Zoloft. And I knew that it would take time for the Wellbutrin to take effect, but I was anticipating stress, because I take Zoloft for anxiety, right?

Well, apparently not. Apparently I took it for anxiety and depression, because as soon as it left my system, I was reduced to a blubbering mess. My previous post, for one example, and EVERY CONVERSATION I HAD, for another. My life was basically reduced to:

Friend: Hey, WG, you look great!

WG: [Bursts into tears]

Or

UPS Dude: Hi, can you sign here?

WG: Sign? Here? [Bursts into tears]

You can ask Mr. WG, who after observing me sobbing quietly sighed heavily and asked, “Is something wrong?”

WG: N-no. [sobs]

Mr. WG: Are you sure?

WG: Yes. I’m fi-fi-fine. [fresh tears]

Mr. WG: Then, why are you crying?

WG: [breaks down and leaves the room.]

Good times.

On Sunday I wrote a letter to the Financial Aid Committee at my kids’ school. The letter is to supplement my aid application, because they somehow omitted a checkbox on the form for Please indicate whether you have another child who will attend a special needs preschool that will cost you twice what you pay for the rest of your children here, as well as exorbitant private therapy costs. An oversight, I’m sure, but still. I wrote a KILLER letter, but I sobbed the whole way through it.

Monday morning, Mr. WG gave the letter to the business manager at the school, to pass on to the Financial Aid Committee. The business manager called me that morning. “I got your letter, and I read it,” he said. “Do you need more financial aid for the rest of this year?”

The question caught me off guard, and I stammered something about how we could continue to make do, perhaps by selling one of the children into slavery. No, I didn’t actually say that, but I implied that we could probably manage for the rest of this year one way or another. And he said, “Well, I’m opening the door for you. If you need more aid for the rest of this year, you tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

We continued to speak about how much it sucks to have a kid with special needs, and I did not burst into tears. And when I told Mr. WG, and then later a friend I saw, about the conversation, I still did not cry. And yesterday at D’s session with Mrs. Block, I talked to her, and once more, I did not cry. And today, even though the checking account has $400 till Friday and even though I somehow totally screwed up one of the credit card bills and now instead of owing $3600 at 0% for 12 months, I owe $3750 at 29.99% like, immediately, and even though the taxes are finally finished and I owe $2k in April, I am okay.

And that, my friends, is the power of modern medicine.

4 comments:

Teej said...

Ahhh.... the clouds clear. So glad to hear it.

LilSeed said...

Totally relate to this. Everything is so much better once the right meds are found - even if not everything else is great.

ella said...

Holy cow. Thank G-d for modern medicine, eh? SO glad you are feeling better. I hope it continues. And, um, TAKE THE MONEY. They're offering you financial aid, you should take it. It's not a sign of weakness. It's simply an acknowledgement that having a child as special as D. requires some expensive stuff.

Lisa b said...

I'm with Ella - take the money!
I've been considering meds for a while but for some reason I am still able to laugh maniacally at this mess I'm in.