Recovery and a Short-Lived Retirement

The 2 or 3 months after ECT are very scetchy for me.  These are the details as I remember them.
I really couldn't tell you how my depression was doing after the treatments.  I don't think there was a huge success that eveyone had hoped for.  I was no longer struggling to stay alive, but I do not think I bounced out of total depression.  The kids were still a source of problems, Chuck and I were having troubles with our marriage, and we had just lost my income. 

With Alex and Linda now living outside the home,  Andrew moving in with his father in Mississippi, and Chuck and I could no longer afford the house and all its expenses on his salary alone,  we made the move to the farm in Kentucky.   Mom and Dad soon joined us at the farm, which made for some rocky goings.

We were there for maybe 2 months.  Mom and Dad were going back to their Florida home, and it was decided that I would go with them to recover while Chuck would return to Arkansas.  I think we had "broken up" but not officially, not yet anyways.  So off to Florida I went, to recover in the bosom of my parents love. 

For the first few months, I was still down.  I was also on the cocktail of drugs that my idiotic psychiatrist in Little Rock had me on.  I even started cutting to help with the pain.  I had never done that type of thing before but found it to be a glorious expression of releasing the hurt.  When you see the beads of blood come to the surface, it releases some type of endorphines I believe.  I don't know that to be fact, but it sure did feel that way.  It's kinda like when you have a good cry and feel better afterwards. 

Then we found Dr Rankunpali, a godsend.  He basically turned the applecart upside down, started from scratch and changed all of my medications.  He also started me seeing a wonderful therapist, Debra.  A good therapist is hard to find!  I prefer a physiologist to a social worker because I get more out of the old fashioned "talk" therapy than I do out of the 6 or 12 week self recovery program. 

I eventually started feeling better, stopped cutting, then actually started feeling really good.  I became less reclusive and joined in on activities.  Before I knew it, Mom and Dad's friends were my friends too.  I went to Friday night do-drop-in potlucks, to the swimming pool, to parties, and played games.  I had come out of my cocoon and became a social butterfly. 

Meanwhile, I had applied for disability, thinking there was no way I could ever work again.  And like most people, I was turned down that first time around.  That meant a 2+ year wait and a hearing. 

Chuck was back in Arkansas, with me telling him I was not going to return.  He continued to pay my medical expenses and give me a little spending money every now and again.  He had got a good job, one that paid well, had good benefits, the whole package.  Why he didn't do that when we were together, I do not know.  Things might have gone down differently.  He still held out hope that we would get back together.  I, on the other hand, did not think we would.

I continued to get stronger, get my tan on, and loving life to the fullest extent.  I have never been as happy and carefree as I was that year and half I spent at Spanish Oaks.  It was like being on vacation everyday.  Someone told me that once you get that Florida sand between your toes, you can never get rid of it.  I know exactly what that means.  What a wonderful recovery.  I don't believe I would be who I am today if it had not been for that precious time I had spent with my parents in Florida. 

Eventually, I moved back to Arkansas and Chuck and I resumed our marriage.  After a few months I decided it was time- that I could do this.  I would go back to work.  I chose to do what I knew best, labor and delivery, but at a slower pace.  So I went to work at our local county hospital.  How quickly I found out the pace was slower but the responsibilities were ginormous compared to that at UAMS.  No doctor or anesthesia in house 24/7!?!?!?  Give me the fast pace at UAMS any day.  I didn't like having to call a doctor every 15 minutes telling him his patient was tanking and him doing essentially nothing about it.  I was used to quick and prudent intervention.

Then, one day, I became aware of ANGELS!  And that story is for a different day.