Fifteen
Today I’m dictating from bed. I’m only doing this because I must.
Today’s a misery day. The doctor would tell me it’s time to see a psychologist or counsellor, but that requires more energy than I have. She won’t give me tablets for depression because she says it’ll get better as I get better. Then, next visit, she admits I may not get better for years. Or ever. Not until we know more about things. And she sends me for tests and forgets the depression. I think, “Do I go back and remind her?” But what if she says “It’ll pass” again? I shall stay in bed and whimper gently to myself instead.
Hal brought me hot chocolate when he came home for lunch. I’m over the worst of it. The miseries have subsided to their usual faint rumble. It makes it worse to talk about it at great length. I
