Disability--and depression

First a quick update:
Friday was bone marrow biopsy #4. On a scale of how much it hurt, I'd put it at third. But it healed quicker, allowing me to bike already on Saturday.

I will meet with Dr. Atallah this Thursday to get the results (including cytogenetics) and presumably to start another round of chemo--7 days of Vidaza infusions. I've updated the Google Doc with additional days I'll need rides. Some of those might be longer, if I need transfusions. It will be interesting to see what happens to my counts this time. My hemoglobin and platelets are actually still pretty high (Friday they'd gone up from my Monday appointment--86K!), although my neutrophils are on a steady decline, which means my brief ability to be out in public for coffee is gone again. At any rate, Greg can always come get me post-transfusion if you sign up to drive me but have to leave before I'm done.

Today, Monday, February 24, is my first day on disability. I have been out of work for 90 days. That's the length of a maternity leave (I would much prefer to have a baby to show for this!). It's something I never thought I'd need, but here I am, and I'm so relieved to have it available. I am fortunate, too, to have amazing co-workers who donated sick time to me so that the number of days I went without any pay were minimal. Throughout this whole experience, I have been continually brought to tears by the generosity of all my friends. I cannot imagine how people do something like this without that support. I will say, however, that it has been tough to not be working and using my brain. I worked throughout my breast cancer treatment--first part time and then full time--and it allowed me to feel at least somewhat normal. I miss that normalcy.

And that brings me to the "depression" part of this post.

Facebook has been reminding me of events that led up to my first bought with Major Depressive Disorder with Anxiety. Eleven years ago this week, after a lifetime of nothing more extreme than PMS, I was completely debilitated by a depressive episode. After twelve years of being a stay-at-home mom, my baby was in school and it was time for me to go back into the workforce. I didn't have a plan for what I was going to do beyond "return to the workforce when the kids are in school." I started applying for jobs either in or out of my first career field (education). I was turned down from every job I applied for. I looked into returning to school to be a nurse, which was what I always thought would be a great fit, and every program would have made me start over with 100 level science courses since I'd been out of school so long. (Never mind that I'd taught or tutored those classes, because it was more than 10 years, they didn't count.) I felt useless--my kids didn't need me like they had and I wasn't contributing to the household at all. I felt lost, and I fell apart. I was fortunate to have insurance which covered me to almost immediately see a therapist, while waiting for an appointment to see a psychiatrist and get medication help. I was virtually bed-bound and unable to interact with anyone beyond my immediate family. It was terrifying--for me, but I know for my family, too. And over a period of several months, I was able to learn coping strategies (my therapist was awesome) and of necessity I weaned off of the Zoloft I'd been prescribed (because it was causing my platelets to drop even lower and the psychiatrist was concerned).

Then midway through my second year of grad school, it hit me again. They tried another antidepressant, which spiraled me into further anxiety (I guess this is relatively common), and it took a few months to get out of that episode, too, although I was able to continue to go to school and work through it. My therapist had retired by then, but I used the skills she'd taught me and worked my way back out again. And it wasn't until I found the lump in my breast in November of 2014 that that feeling overtook me again. I went back on Zoloft through my breast cancer treatment, until I couldn't be on it anymore (when I started Tamoxifen). And I found that, despite my fear of not being able to take them, I was again fine without them.

At any rate, I have been thinking a lot about depression lately. Right now I'm in a relatively similar situation to where I was eleven years ago--home full-time, mostly alone. I feel like I don't really have a purpose, as I'm not working. And if you add in the bit about being mostly house-bound plus that diagnosis of a second cancer, it would come as no surprise if I'd again feel depressed.

And yet somehow I'm not. I'm frustrated at my lack of contributions and I fear my brain will forget how to work. I continually list the things that I had planned to do this year, but won't be able to (go to Trav's graduation; bike the 150 mile Scenic Shore; visit Cara in La Crosse; do college visits with Ash...), and I have momentary periods of sadness and "that's not fair!" but I have not fallen into that depressive spiral through any of this.

I have a theory. Eleven years ago, at least in my mind, I felt that depression was not something to talk about. It was something that you hid, and tried not to label. Medication and therapy were both looked down upon. And so I tried to face it mostly alone (not entirely true--Greg totally got me through!). And then my breast cancer diagnosis came, and when I decided to be public with it, the outpouring of support was amazing. Much as now, with my leukemia diagnosis, people flooded me with notes and gifts and general good thoughts. I once read a quote that said simply, "Depression Lies." For me, that's exactly what it did to me during those three depressive incidents--it convinced me that I was useless and that no one needed me. But now, with so many people reaching out after my cancer diagnoses, even without some of those coping skills learned in therapy, there was no way that I could argue with the fact that someone needed me. A hell of a lot of you "needed" me--and cared about me. And there is no "depression" this time.

So my wish is that we, as a society, were able to do that and to be there for people who have mental health issues, too. For that stigma of saying, "I am depressed" or "I can't get out of bed today" to go away, and for us all to completely embrace people with mental illness like we do for physical illness. Because you know what? Those scary depressive episodes I had were worse than any of the cancer treatments I've had. And just as I know that no one would judge a cancer patient who is utterly exhausted by their surgery, chemo or radiation treatments, there should be no shame in being bed bound by anxiety or depression. A card, a note, a text, flowers, a visit, a gift certificate, a lunch date... all of these things that people did for me after my cancer diagnoses would have been helpful when I was struggling with depression, too. (Although I didn't know it at the time and certainly didn't share it.)

If you are dealing with depression, whether you feel you can label it or not, if you want to, please know that you can tell me. Because depression is a filthy dirty liar that makes you feel worse than any physical pain. And I will be the first to tell you what a horrible liar it is, and I would love to help you see your worth. You are needed. You are wanted. You are important. And you are loved. And there are better days ahead.