That’s how the pdoc described me when Brian took me to see him this past Monday. The doctor put me back on Wellbutrin, an antidepressant I’ve been on before and worked for a while, anyway. It’s supposed to help decrease my irritability and do something else, but I can’t remember what he said. He increased my Tegretol (mood stabilizer) from 600 mg to 800 mg. I’ve been on even more than that before, but he wants to take it slow. Maybe that’s what’s supposed to decrease my irritability and the Wellbutrin’s supposed to do something else? He also decided that my ECTs should be every four weeks again instead of every six weeks, which was how far apart the last two were.

Although he says this is the least functional he’s ever seen me (since I became his patient in December 1994 or 1995), that this is probably my all-time low according to my chart, in December 2005 I started having trouble with depression — like, during the month of December. However, he’s very optimistic that these changes in meds will have me up and about and playing hockey in like, three weeks. Please. I haven’t done any physical activity since that last game in October — I’d have to train for about two weeks first before I even think about hitting the ice! Anyway…

I know I’ve been worse than I am now. According to my LiveJournal, which is where I started blogging and have yet to import the posts here (some day), I think there was a time a few years ago when I didn’t even shower for like, two weeks! Or maybe it’s that I didn’t leave the apartment for two weeks. Or both. I just don’t want to look up my December posts of the last several years. Certainly not while I’m in this frame of mind. I’d rather look ahead.

Brian will be taking me to see the PCP this Thursday regarding the period stuff. What a frickin’ pain.

Brian and I met with the Interventional Radiologist yesterday to go over my pre-surgical MRIs I had done last week and to discuss whether or not I’d be a good candidate for the uterine embolization. Well, I’m not. The doctor said that because of the small size of the fibroid (1/3″), he doesn’t believe it’s causing the emotional or the physical symptoms I’m experiencing, so now I’m back to square one. He conjectured that the emotional stuff are signs of a classical depression — tired all the time, increased appetite, and son on; but couldn’t explain the periods every two weeks, constant bloaty feeling, the length of my periods, etc.

I already have my regular appointment with the pdoc scheduled for Monday, and now I’ll be seeing the PCP in a couple of weeks to figure out what to do next. In a way I’m disappointed about this outcome because I thought it would make these awful emotional and physical feelings go away. I’m still somewhat bedridden and definitely housebound. On the other hand, I’m relieved about not having to have more surgery/medical procedures done.

Maybe I’m wrong, but if the fibroid isn’t feeding the depression, then the ECT isn’t working. These last two sessions have been six weeks apart, so maybe I’ll have to have them every four weeks again. I just don’t know. All I know is that I’m sick of feeling the way I do.

Brian took me to see the pdoc on Monday, who was all for having the fibroid removed. Like the PCP said today, there’s no guarantee that it’ll “cure” my depression, but since it isn’t a major surgery, then why not? The pdoc also said that my affect is good, meaning that outsiders, even friends, family members, my teammates, anyone who knows me fairly closely, would never know that I’m suffering from depression — except for Brian, of course, because he sees me at home. The pdoc pointed out that I can laugh as easily as anyone who isn’t suffering from depression, that I’m not even faking it, that my smiles and laughter are genuine. Ironic, isn’t it?

My symptoms, he said, are more behavioral: the trouble getting out of bed, getting in the shower (both of which have improved), getting out of the house on my own (still needs work). He suggested having the fibroid taken out after my next ECT, which is scheduled for December 3. His thinking is that he wants me to have any little thing that might help my depression before the surgery.

We saw the PCP this morning, who said the best course of action is to have the fibroid embolized. I’m not even sure that’s the right term, but basically, the surgeon makes maybe a couple of small incisions and cuts the blood supply off to the fibroid, so they aren’t actually removing it, but it may still go away on its own. I guess as long as it isn’t getting any blood, it can’t function. I’ll need either another ultrasound or maybe an MRI before any surgery is scheduled, and he isn’t sure which surgeon he wants to do it or at what hospital. Although my PCP is affiliated with Death Star Hospital, the OB/gyn surgeon there uses more invasive techniques, in his opinion. He’ll be calling us on Monday with the logistics.

Unfortunately, this means no hockey until probably after the first of the year, but there’s always the Air Hockey app on Crackbook, that sometimes freezes up in the middle of a game.

I can’t stand this depressive episode any longer. Clearly the ECT isn’t helping. I’ve been putting off making this decision for a very long time, but last night I finally did it, and it was very difficult.

I’m taking a break from hockey, the one activity that keeps me out of depression and focuses my anxiety, in order to have my fibroid removed. Of course, the reason I was even able to start playing hockey again was because the ECT worked. The Seasonique, though it has cut back on my periods, hasn’t improved my depression. I’m convinced it’s some sort of hormonal thing from the fibroid that’s exacerbating this. Anyway, until this thing is gone from my body, we won’t truly know if the ECT is helping. It was before, so it makes sense that it’s this stupid fibroid and that once it’s gone, the ECT will work again.

I’m angry about being so depressed that I’ve been housebound for the last several weeks and it’s a huge chore just getting in the shower. I don’t even know how I managed to hold up in Las Vegas, other than that we were surrounded by family. Here it’s just my sister and her husband, and my mother, all of whom have lives of their own. We get together every so often, but no one stops by every day, even for just a few minutes.

Yesterday, I knew things were really bad when I couldn’t get myself to accompany Brian to drop off and pick up Basil from the vet for his cardiac ultrasound. I didn’t even have to drive, all I had to do was sit in the passenger seat, and the place is literally five blocks away! That’s when I knew.

I’m angry that I have to stop playing hockey, but I know it isn’t forever, and I’m hoping I’ll be back on the ice after the holidays. Other people have had to stop playing for a while, so why should I be any different? Maybe it doesn’t hold as much sway for them. I don’t know.

I do know that I need time to think, to write, to blog. There’s been so much going on and blogging about it has helped in the past. I’ve been keeping too much inside, withdrawing from people. Always having a big smile to both the online world and the world outside my apartment when I manage to venture out. I can’t anymore.