Of depression

Sitting in the doctor’s office, I hear the words. They leave her mouth like an anvil and slam upon the floor, the noise made by each previous contact making the next syllable more impossible to hear.

“You have depression.”

I leave my body and float out of the chair. I’m outside the hospital, gazing down on all that was. I’m flying further, and further, overcoming the very curvature of the world, and then I see it. My future, everything that will become of me, and all that was, laid before my very eyes.

My first sense is loss. Loss of mystery, of individuality, and most importantly, of choice.

My head is spinning. I’m falling, crashing through the sky. I miss the chair and my body and drown below into the depths of hell. I’m confronted by all that has ever scared me, a violent torture to my all-seeing soul.

I’m fired, divorced, my family has shunned me. Strangers spit on me, I’m left to rot. Slowly I decay into nothingness until the coolest realization, as I’m forced to linger while all I once loved is forgotten to me.

My heart skips a beat and I’m back in the chair. The doctor is still talking, I realize to myself. I haven’t heard a damn thing she’s said to me in the last five minutes. I hope it wasn’t important.

“The important thing is that there is hope, treatment, and I am going to help you.”

I stumble home from the office, dreading the moment I finally stop. When my footsteps no longer crowd my ears, I’m left with my thoughts. Depression. What does this mean?

It takes a while, but my life takes a surprising fork as I journey on the path to recovery. I actually get better. I’m working again, and somehow, my relationships are more fulfilling. It’s a Saturday, and I want to go to the park. Why? Just because. It’s a refreshing release, to finally do something¬†because.¬†

On Monday, I’m back in her office. She’s asking me questions and I can’t stop thinking about this chair.

“How are you feeling?”

I speak for a while and we exchange pleasantries. She’s happy to hear I’m doing well. In a way, it feels surreal. The doctor catches my smile and asks me what’s up, and I give a small chuckle.

“Last time I was here, I thought I was drowning.”

Editor’s note: The above is a fictional piece I wrote, as inspired by a recent conversation I had with a patient regarding the meaning of a diagnosis. They had felt a diagnosis made a lot of assumptions about them, and what their future looked like. They were glad to be proven wrong.

Dr. Travis Barron is a resident physician in Toronto, Canada.

The small things

“Thirty five!”

My heart begins to pound. Could it be? That’s three out of six numbers so far, I had never done this well.

“Seventeen!”

I’m out of the seat. I grasp the lottery ticket in my right hand tightly and stare at the TV. Images of yachts, parties, European vacations flash before me. The woman on the TV bends over and pulls the last number from the bin.

“Eleven!”

I’m screaming. Everyone’s screaming. We’re hugging, jumping crying in joy, when –

cup of coffee near croissant bread
Photo by julie aagaard on Pexels.com

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

I role over as I bring myself from a foggy haze back to the planet Earth. I look to my side, expecting to see the brightness of the TV and the infinitely smiling lottery woman. Instead I’m met with a dark bedroom and the slightest hint of sunlight beginning to break through the bedroom window.

It was all a dream.

For a moment, I’m sad. I mourn my yacht. I mourn the Greek islands. I prepare to mourn for my would-have-been pet Tiger, when the hope begins to trickle into my mind.

It’s Saturday.

Oh, Saturday. The king of days, the glory of glory. We meet again. What have you brought me today? Is it a hike? An interesting play? The sweet nectar of shameless hedonism and laziness so that I may bathe myself in relaxation? Perhaps.

But first, there’s coffee.

Ah, coffee. I smell the sweet fumes, the pungency of the beans as they’re cracked over blade. I’m intoxicated with the idea. I climb out of bed and realize my mouth is watering. I sneak by my loved one and enter the kitchen, the regular opening scene to my Saturday-plays.

I grind the beans, turn on the machine, and wait patiently through the glug-glug. Soon, it’s ready. I sit on the step and drink from my chalice. I find myself wondering just how much of my blood is this very drink. For those moments, the world is still. As long as there’s blackness that sits in my cup, time is frozen, and it remains in good form until I take the final sip.

I find myself mourning the lottery once more. I look to my cup and smile to myself. What I really appreciate, are the small things.

Dr. Travis Barron is a resident physician in Toronto, Canada.