Why I Doubt I’ll Find The Help I Need

More misadventures within a medical system that never ceases to astonish with its incompetence.

Photo by Kevin Bidwell

On my bike in the evening’s heavy rain, I barely noticed the Tesla as it blew past a stop sign and t-boned me. My head hit the pavement as my bike came to rest over top of me, my leg through the frame like a tightly knotted pretzel. My high visibility vest and flashing lights did nothing to prevent the accident, but my helmet and considerable luck spared me from a worse fate. After an exchange of information with the driver and witness I walked my mangled bike down to work and proceeded to put in a full shift, five hours of ice skating under bright lights. I thought I was fine.

I don’t know how to describe my actions after the accident; bravado seems less appropriate than stupidity. I should have gone to the hospital, or home at the very least. I was too distracted, too trapped within my increased stress and worsening mood to check in with how I was feeling. The stress was an easy scapegoat for the headaches, terrible sleep, fatigue, confusion, sensitivity to light and sound, and so on in the days post-accident. A week or so later, unable to follow the tip of a pen with my eyes, my physiotherapist finally brought the concussion to my attention. That concussion would soon become a crutch.

For weeks to follow I’d suffer from daily headaches, terrible sleep, and subsequent fatigue and low mood. My once busy days devolved into endless hours of isolation and self medicating. I blamed the concussion. I stopped engaging in most forms of social life, my communication was spotty at best. Physiotherapy, massage therapy, and acupuncture dominated my schedule as I did my best to power through a recovery. I showed signs of improvement, at least enough to take a long anticipated trip, but more of the same awaited me upon my return. Terrible sleep, low mood, and headaches made it all too easy to default to social isolation. Again, I blamed the concussion. Finally, after another ill-advised and reckless attempt at self medicating, I broke down to my best friend and told them I wanted to die. 

My friend, being a reasonable human being, did the only thing they could and promptly informed my doctor (we frequent the same clinic). My doctor was to call and check in the very next day, though I’d only learned of the plan from my friend; my doctor never called. With enough good sense left in me to recognize my desperate situation, I made my own appointment with my doctor, asked to go back on medication, and all but begged to be referred to a psychiatrist. I left with a prescription for anti-psychotic and an SSRI (medications numbers eight and nine respectively in this ongoing journey,) and a promise for a referral to the Mood Disorders Association of BC. I waited for the MDA’s call, desperate for some guidance that felt less haphazard than my doctor’s previous prescriptions. A week passed, the call didn’t come. Another week passed, the call didn’t come. 

Impatient, I called the MDA to inquire about wait times only to be told my referral was never received. Their fax number had recently changed, many doctors no longer had the up to date info, I gave my doctor the benefit of the doubt. In the meantime my new medications left my brain feeling every bit as scrambled as the concussion did, there wasn’t much I felt capable of doing other than bringing it up with my doctor during our upcoming phone check in. On the day of the check-in, though, my doctor didn’t call. This marked the third time in as many months my doctor had missed an appointment.

As previously mentioned, my doctor works in one of Vancouver’s absolute worst clinics. Attempting call after call, hour after hour on the day after my missed appointment, the phone rang until I was disconnected, never reaching a human soul at the clinic. On the fifth attempt of the day I finally reached a receptionist who put me next in queue for a phone consultation, and wouldn’t you know it, this time my doctor finally called. Absolutely shocked to hear my referral was never received, my doctor chalked it up to a fax number mishap, assuring me the referral would go through immediately. Another week passed, I once again called the MDA only to learn they still hadn’t received my referral. Learning my lesson, this time I went to the clinic in person in search of an explanation. The receptionist informed me my doctor had never sent in a referral in the first place, but they would leave him a note as a reminder. I would be furious if I weren’t so numb from the medication.

At present, I don’t know when or if my referral to the MDA will finally go through, or how long from that day it’ll take to connect me to a competent mental healthcare practitioner. In the meantime I’m doing my best to break out of my usual patterns, attending get togethers and volunteering, but often being too out of it to fully engage or enjoy myself. My faith in the medical system at an all time low, I wonder how long until my new medications no longer numb me enough to make it through the day. It’s not a fun way to live, to put it lightly, but I’m moving forward, temporarily fueled by anger and disappointment. More to come.