Visit to a non-desi doctor

So today I went to see a doctor for a follow-up on my anti-depressants. She was probably Australian. I asked her questions like for how long I need to be on them?

“Depends on you,” she said. “When you feel you are ready.”

In my mind I was thinking: Does that even matter when I am ready or not? Cuz damn well my mom certainly doesn’t care, neither does my husband. They think I could be ready tomorrow if I am dealt with strongly, meaning emotional blackmail and a doze of horrible narrations of women who had to go through a hard time for delaying kids or the ones who were divorced because they couldn’t bear children.

I was looking at the doctor and saw a friend in her, a friend who thinks it depends on “me” and not others.

“If there’s something big coming up in your life, like you are looking to settle or anything like that, I advise you do not get off medication because you need to be under supervision while coming off of anti-depressants.”

BINGO! That’s what I needed to hear! Woman….you have made me happy!

Well then she asks if I was not on anti-depressants would I still be ready for kids?

“Nope.” I shake my head confidently.

She looks at me. I know I need to explain a bit and I don’t mind.

“So you see I am on the medication because of my marriage, so even if I wasn’t on them, I wouldn’t want to have kids. Because the problem would still be there.”

She nods and her facial expression reflects she understands. So well, I squeeze out some more info about how it’s not just about a couple wanting or not wanting a kid, its about both families too. I have a lot of pressure from all sides to have a kid.

“Oh….poor you….poor you,” she looks at me sympathetically.

I can’t do anything but laugh. Not because its a joke but because I don’t know what else to do. It’s uncomfortable, it’s weird. I certainly don’t want to cry, so I laugh.

She hears a bit more of the story.

“Ah….poor you…I feel for you. Must be so hard.”

I laugh again, thank her for the session, get my medicine and leave.

Once I am out, I repeat her sentence in my mind.

“Poor you…”

I whisper the words out, smile and shake my head.

“Nope.” I say to myself. “I ain’t poor, I am strong.”


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