A Trip To My Own Personal Asylum

Things become curiouser and curiouser.

Things are progressing with my hyperparathyroidism. I've had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, a charming Englishman with whom its a genuine delight to work. I've done the blood work and the 24-hour urine collection, and am now waiting on the radiology department of the local hospital to contact me for my appointment. The lab results are far more difficult for me to interpret, so I may be forced to wait until my follow-up appointment in roughly two weeks to see what they really mean.

Unfortunately, another aspect of my conditions that advances is the mental distress. A common accompanying diagnosis for parathyroid and thyroid conditions is chronic depression, which, in my case, is most certainly complicated by my continuing marital difficulties. I find myself running a greater gamut of potential neuroses as time progresses; in the past week, I've tracked my wife on Facebook, convinced she was having an affair one day, manically overjoyed with how well we're doing the next, in the grips of anxiety and anger on another, and so on and so forth. I do not doubt for a moment that I need help, and that speaking to a professional therapist would help, but I remain concerned about starting any deeply invasive psychiatric procedures if the source of my mental issues are solely physiological. Even the best and most respected of psychotherapists would agree that if my depression and other issues stems from my hyperparathyroidism, a sort of neuro-metabolic issue, antidepressants and other psychotropic medication would have no effect, its best intentions being metabolized away by my condition before any benefit could be realized. It is also fair to surmise, along the lines of my endocrinologist's suspicions, that if my hyperparathyroidism is primary, then it is also congenital and began taking effect on me some seventeen years ago, predating my earliest diagnosis of depression. Granted, most of my concern and fear generates from ethnic sources; the Pennsylvania Dutch trust psychiatrists and psychologists even less than they do physicians. However, I still feel my concerns are legitimate and not the mere musings of hypochondria.

In an effort to apply a practical solution, I've arranged for myself a sort of pre-emptive convalescence; I've submitted a vacation request at work and have already had it approved. I've taken off the week beginning with Mother's Day, following through to the following Saturday. I may even have the option of having off the Thursday through Saturday preceding and the Sunday through Tuesday following, if I appease the boss enough and display just enough carefully-crafted and politically correct mental hardship need. My vacation destination? My easy chair and the coffee-table/ottoman in front of it. This isn't a 'get real excited and go out and do things' type of vacation; this is a 'Christ I need some time to myself before I go postal and kill everyone around me' type of vacation. I might contact my temple and see if they're sponsoring or even permitting retreats at this time of year, maybe head to the lobby of the local library for an entire day to just read and have a tech-free day. At the very least, I hope to have a successful date or two with my wife, perhaps overcome her sexual barrier. No definite plans yet.

I realize that of late, these entries have become far too diary-like, and should anyone actually be reading these 'pages,' I apologize. I write primarily for myself as release, but any writer compelled to set word to page or screen secretly or publicly desires and audience. There is no falsehood intended by the description of the blog; there are rants and conundrums and diatribes and opinion-editorials a-plenty to be had. I just need to unpack the personal effects first. Patience, door reader. I will strive to make it worth your while.