Saturday, April 9, 2016

Another One Bites the Dust

     If I was still on Fycompa, I would probably have stayed up all night writing about yesterday because there was so much action. Luckily, I'm not, so instead you'll be getting the Depakoted version.
     It started with another break-up, and I'm glad my husband was there to see it and once again agree with my decision that my old/new therapist is not the right one to help me deal with this trip I've been on for almost a year now.
     We both realized there was no counseling/therapy to come from that office, although my referral from TriCare covers plenty of that. Instead, she wanted to try me on something new, or so she thought it was. Her decision was based on the results of a Q-tip swap they did in my mouth on my last visit plus her impression that I seemed depressed.
     "Have you ever tried Lamictal?" she asked.
     "Yes," I told her. "It's the first drug my neurologist put me on last summer, and I took it until December." It didn't work to control the seizures, and I didn't like the way it made me feel, I said. Every time I was in a social situation, I started to sweat and wanted to peel off a layer of clothes.
      So, I do not want to try that drug again. Plus, I'm not adding another anticonvulsant now that my seizures are finally under control again with Depakote.
     "But it's also a mood regulator, a great drug for depression, and this would be at a different dosage," she persisted.
     Again, I said no. I told her I have a cabinet full of it at home and might use it for an art project because the pills are so colorful. We decided to call Ron in from the lobby, so he could join in the fun.
     She complained that my neurologist's office hadn't responded to her yet, and we wasted at least five minutes of "therapy time" giving her my doctor's exact name and explaining we didn't have the number memorized and would hafta Google it, same as her.
     At one point, she said, "You claim they prescribed Lamictal last fall..." and that's when my trust for her went out the window. I don't lie to my healthcare providers.
     She asked how often I was taking the Klonopin, and I told her only once or twice a day. Now that the Fycompa experience is fading from my mind, I'm less angry but realize it's time to take it when I'm so mad I yell at things (usually appliances) and my dog hides in her cage.
     For the billionth time in my life, I received the Benzo lecture, about how horrible those drugs are because people end up taking them every day rather than as needed. The recommendation is always a newer, "safer" drug that must be taken every day.
     None of it makes sense to me, a 48-year-old woman who has taken anticonvulsants and arthritis medicine twice daily since she was 22, except during the early pregnant and trying-to-get-pregnant months.
      The clincher though, and there is one when I make the decision for a final break-up, one in which I never look back again and say, good riddance, came when she asked, "And who prescribed the Klonopin?'
     I'm so glad Ron was in the room to witness this, to see what I go through in search of finding my way back to being "happy wife" again.
     "You did," I reminded her, pulling the bottle out of my purse.
     It had been exactly two weeks since we sat in that same office and she wrote the prescription. "We'll contact you after I talk to your neurologist for your follow-up appointment," she said.
      I was already out the door.
      It was time for a field trip to D.C.