It's good to feel like me again

By SHEILA STOLL

© St. Petersburg Times,
published September 25, 2001

I have taken a few shots at (and from) the medical profession and medical insurers. I don't take back anything I've said. However, I've discovered the value of some enlightened, caring doctors and the value of some scary medication.

After my late husband died, I was depressed for about a year and a half. What finally pulled me out of it was writing about my experiences as a widow alone in the boonies of Central Florida. Large amounts of wine probably prolonged the depression. I didn't seek medical help then.

More recently, as my older brother was dying and afterward, I was severely depressed and had pains in my back that scared me. (My brother had similar pains shortly before his terminal diagnosis.) Finally, Darling Husband insisted that I see a doctor.

I don't have cancer; however, my fear and depression made the back problem much worse. The doctor recommended physical therapy and a prescription for an anti-depressant. I am improving. Depression doesn't go away overnight, but medication can help.

My younger brother confided that he, too, has been depressed since our brother's death. I recommended that he see a doctor about getting some chemical help.

Lots of us have grown up thinking that we should be strong enough to pull up our socks and not allow depression to get us down. What most of us haven't realized is that depression can have negative physical effects. As we get older, the connection between depression and physical problems increases.

The fact is that lots of us have good reasons to feel depressed. It's no fun losing a loved one. Physical problems that occur with age are depressing, made worse by letting the depression go untreated.

So here I am, recommending mind-altering drugs. Medical supervision is important when using them, but in many cases they are life savers.

We must be sure that one doctor is aware of every drug we are taking. If you take an anti-depressant, which can cause drowsiness, and then allergies hit, and you head for a non-prescription allergy remedy you've used successfully for years, you may run into big trouble. Driving to the drug store may become a hazardous activity for you and for everyone else on the road. (Don't get depressed about that. Many pharmacies deliver.)

If you are seeing more than one doctor and are getting prescription medication for more than one condition, everyone involved must know about everything you are taking. Pharmacists are good sources for finding out about drug interactions.

I'm not saying everyone should take anti-depressants just because they feel a little down. I'm talking about the kind of depression that makes you not care about what happens to you; it can become passive suicide. It is not a natural consequence of age and some decrepitude. It is treatable.

For me, depression means I see lovely flowers and a beautiful day and feel no joy. My brain keeps me trapped in a downward spiral involving worry about myself. Then I worry that I'm worrying too much. Then it seems like a good idea to take a nap.

These days I take naps from time to time, but no longer as an escape from bleak thoughts.

Darling Husband, with a big smile on his face, has announced: "My Honey Bun is smiling and joking again."

He's right. I'm making sarcastic remarks about offensive commercials. My commentaries about things I find in the local paper have clever barbs. In short, I'm getting back to normal. That doesn't mean I don't feel sad about sad things that happen. It doesn't mean I'm in a fuzzy daze all the time. It does mean I don't have to endure being without light, color, laughter and connecting with other people.

I reserve the right to be crotchety if I want to, but it is not my only behavioral choice. Apathy is way worse than being crotchety.

I do what I'm supposed to do to get my back muscles uncramped, and then I move on, no longer preoccupied with thoughts of doom.

My brother took my advice and saw a doctor who recommended anti-depressants. He is involved in his own life again and feels optimistic about the future.

Nobody has to carry his own black cloud around forever. I love that silver lining. And I'm a smart-a-- again. I'm normal.

- You can write to Sheila Stoll c/o Seniority, the Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731.

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