I spent a week increasingly anxious and queasy--but anxiety feels like a tense lump under my sternum, and that happens to be the same area where I get heartburn, so I wasn't sure which was what, except heartburn usually doesn't involve horrible gnawing dread, but then I'd drink tea and it would feel like the liquid was passing through the horrible gnawing dread, so what did that mean?
It meant that I finally gave up and called the doctor, made the appointment, hung up the phone, had a rather startling crying jag, and then went "Okay, yeah, I know what this is, at least I didn't move across the country this time." Fortunately, while the NP that got me through the last one has moved on, the new one knew her well, went through the file, and said "If this worked for you, we will do exactly the same." So I'm hooked up with enough anti-anxiety and anti-nausea meds to get me through the end of this book deadline, when I can take the week off and go back on antidepressants, which will basically mean a week of having the mental flu.
Worst. Vacation. Ever.
Ugh. Brain chemistry. (And no one should have to make the choice "Okay, I can't take these at the same time, so do I want the anti-anxiety or the anti-nausea first?")
New Hound celebrated this mental breakdown by digging under the fence. She has been marvelous so far, and this is the first real bad behavior. I can't trench and put down chicken wire easily--it's a hundred yards of clay and mature trees have rooted through it--but we've blocked up the hole, Kevin dragged a couple dead trees over the area, and we're trying to figure out what to do next. Brandon the border collie did that a few times as a puppy, but learned not to--we have to figure out if this is a trainable problem and she'll give up if discouraged, or if she's just a digger. One is within the realm of reasonable accommodation, the other gets tricky.