Each and every doctor has taken the opportunity to look at me with pity, slowly reaching out to touch one of my knees, "How are you doing?" No sooner does the question come out do they then offer me antidepressants and/or anti-anxiety meds. Mind you, this is without them seeing me drop a single tear, and in fact, often cracking jokes with them.
It happened again this very morning. "How are you? You seem to be in good spirits."
Little did she know I had nearly cried a half-dozen times since entering the building. In the waiting room, there was a couple joyfully flipping through their brand new ultrasound pictures.. along with four very pregnant women waiting for their appointments. Then I was taken to an exam room with pregnancy information and a poster of preemie twins laying next to each other with the caption "It May Seem Hard, But You're Not Going Through It Alone."
I mean, seriously. This whole thing was emotional torture. But I didn't break down, and I can have normal conversation.
She continued, "Postpartum depression can last for up to a year," she uttered as if diagnosing me with such. "It can be worse with infant loss. So if you feel like you need any medication.. antidepressants.. just let us know."
I just nodded politely as I thought to myself how bizarre it was that they were basically asking patients to self-diagnose and determine treatment. Had I even muttered that I was having a rough time or that I cry everyday, I have no doubt that I would have left that office with a shiny new prescription.
Don't get me wrong. Antidepressants have their place and time, and serve an important function for many people. But the idea that they should just be practically thrown at anyone who is grieving seems so sad to me (no pun intended). Nevermind the fact that they weren't offered in conjunction or even as a secondary option to counseling. Just, "You feel sad? Here's a pill."
It's OKAY to grieve. It's OKAY to cry. It's even okay to have a few days where you don't feel like doing anything or talking to anyone.
I would never want to be numb to that kind of loss -- that kind of pain. That extraordinary pain reminds me how much I loved them and always will.
If you'd like to help us get a second chance, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund
I concur with the insensitivity of waiting rooms... everyone lumped together where those of us who are grieving or fighting infertility are forced to come face-to-face with those who have big healthy bumps. The worst for me is the constant replays on the TV screens of how to strap a child into a car seat or put them down to sleep. I nearly lose it every time. Stay strong... a lot of us are in absolute awe of your strength!
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