Patience and More Patience

When I first started researching Fybromyalgia I kept reading that patience was one of the most important factors in successful treatment because it often took months or even years to get a definitive diagnosis.  I desperately hoped this would not be the case for me but who was I to think I was going to have it easier than anyone else. 

It's been six months since this most recent flare started and I really don't have any answers yet.  I finally went to the mainland yesterday and saw an actual Rhumatologist.  She asked me lots of questions I had never been asked before.  She had me walk across the room, bend down and touch my toes and poked my body to check for trigger points of which I had none.  So, as a result I don't fit the criteria for Fibromyalgia according to her (and many other sources I've checked).  She was thinking  it might be a viral thing like Epstein Barr or Lyme Disease.  She ordered blood work and I still haven't finished paying off the first round.

So, I go back in four weeks and have blood drawn in three.  It's so very hard to be patient when all you want is to know what's wrong with you and why you go to doctor appointment after doctor appointment and have no answers.  It's a bit of a comfort to know that there are many people going through the same thing right now, although I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.

The Wildest Dreams

A few days ago I watched the documentary film, "The Wildest Dreams".  Conrad Anker, an accomplished mountain climber, finds the body of George Mallory five hundred feet below the summit of Mt. Everest.  The body is surprisingly preserved on the frozen mountain, his letters and papers still perfectly legible.  One of his legs had been severely fractured, the bone had ripped through the skin and several ribs were broken.  Mallory had aspired to be the first human to reach the summit of Mt. Everest in 1924 but never made it off the mountain alive.  The film documents Anker as he becomes obsessed with discovering whether Mallory had reached the summit and was descending when he fell to his death or if he had still been on his way to the top.  Was he the first to reach the summit or not?   There isn't any conclusive evidence either way.  The knowledge of his success or failure died with him.

Aspirations are such a strange and uniquely human phenomenon.  No other living being aspires to be anything other than it is or wants to be anywhere it isn't.  To some, dreams become an object of obsession and the only purpose for living, while others are content to think about them from time to time, then put them away in the backs of their minds to carry on with life. George Mallory allowed his dream to become more important than his life or his family.  I wonder if he would have said it was worth it.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel......Maybe?

After lots of searching and asking around, I finally found a rhumatologist who would graciously see a "cash patient".  I made an appointment for the end of the month.  No one at the office seems able to tell me how much this consultation will cost so I'll just have to cross my fingers that it won't wipe me out completely.  I've taken some money out of a retirement savings account I have and I hope it will be enough. 

This experience has reminded me of one thing, what it feels like to be discriminated against.  I've been discriminated based on my income level before.  I grew up in a middle to low income family and have always dated/ married men who were from as poor or poorer families than mine.  As an artist and non-conformist, I have never sought a job that paid big bucks.  I was always content with having enough money to pay the bills and a little left over.  My current job pays practically nothing.  My main compensation is my housing.  I get paid commission on the rooms I book but in the winter that can be almost nothing.  Since I make so little and don't have health insurance, I'm enrolled in Charity Care and Patient Assistance at the clinic.  These programs only cover certain things, so for the rest I'm on my own.  There is definitely a stigma attached to those who have no other choice but to participate in these programs.  I have experienced it many times.

Stunned ....Hopeless

I'm still feeling the same - horrible.  I've patiently waited weeks for my doctor (a GP) to call specialists for consultations on my condition.  Although I appreciate her intention, to treat me without my having to actually see a specialist, she obviously doesn't have the time to devote to the task.  If you've read any of my previous posts you already know how many unanswered messages and even notes I've left for my doctor and how many days it takes her to "get back to me".  Because I have no insurance or money for that matter, I've had to sit by and suffer for months. 

I was talking to a friend recently who strongly urged me to see a Rheumatologist regardless of cost.  She suggested that I might have to charge it on a credit card or get a loan to find out what was really wrong with me...if I even had Fibromyalgia.  Just the thought angered me, but maybe it was the only way.  I knew the name of the doctor my doctor had been consulting with and I looked him up on the net and found his office number.  I called and asked to make an appointment.  The woman I spoke with on the phone asked if I had a referral from my doctor.  I explained that the referral I had wasn't for insurance purposes but rather a "word of mouth" referral.  She asked if I had insurance and when I said I didn't, she dismissed me and said that the doctor didn't accept "cash" patients.  Thoroughly confused, I asked for clarification.  "We don't accept patients who don't have insurance" she stated coldly.  I didn't know what to say.  I couldn't believe that the doctor wouldn't see me because I didn't have insurance.  Wasn't that discrimination?  I hung up the phone in disbelief and I cried.  I felt completely helpless and hopeless.  Seeing the specialist had been my last hope and now that hope was gone.  What if no doctor would see me? 

Me, the Sea and My Life Now

At the end of my last post, I was still living aboard Perdida with Mike.  We had lost our very beloved fourteen year old dog Happy and mourned his loss as though we had lost a child.  Things were beginning to unravel below the surface but our stubborn plan to sail to Hawaii was still on course. 

The story doesn't have a very happy ending so far as answered dreams are concerned.  We never sailed off to Hawaii.   I never got to sit in a tropical lagoon in Perdida's cockpit watching the sun set.  I was never able to use any of the skills or knowledge I learned in the countless seminars and classes I'd attended.  I never felt the freedom of being out in the ocean, no land in site, standing at the helm with sea air blowing through my hair as I had imagined it with such excitement since as far back I can remember.  I had foolishly assumed this journey was to lead me to my life's purpose.  The pull to the sea was so strong, how could it not be destined?  How could something I'd never felt such joyful anticipation for completely abandon me.  I still don't really understand what happened.  Perdida has been gone now for four years and I still deeply mourn her loss.  Mike left for Hawaii around the same time we sold Perdida.  He sailed her from Catalina with a couple friends to her new owner on the mainland.  Watching her leave the harbor and disappear over the horizon hurt so badly I couldn't stand.  My heart was breaking into a million pieces.  Even while I write this, the pain returns, my eyes are welling up with tears and the computer screen is becoming harder to see.  I always look out into the harbor to see her beautiful, distinctive teal colored hull, wondering if her new owners would take her here for a cruise but I have never seen her.  I suppose I'll never see her or Mike again.

Sometimes I miss Mike deeply.  I love my husband dearly but I know that I will never again share something so life altering, as what Mike and I shared, with anyone else.  The hundreds of photographs we took along our journey are sitting on my hard drive and will probably remain unviewed for the rest of my life.  As I took those pictures I remember thinking "Maybe we can make a documentary about our journey".  Maybe someday my daughter will look at the photos after I'm gone and wonder about them. 

How could I be as close with anyone again?  Mike and I were together for eight years, most of which was spent researching sailboats together, dinners out or at bars spent excitedly talking about nothing but our "plan", going to countless classes and seminars together, buying our dream boat together, going through rough times while learning about our new boat together, packing up our lives and driving across the country to start our new life and so so much more....together.  I learned at Christmas that Mike had gotten married.  It knocked me off my feet, crushing me for about three days.  The same thought kept running through my mind and even quietly sobbed through my tears "Mike....what happened...what happened to us?".   All I could think about was the day we first met.  The excitement that had begun that day and had completely sustained me (while also torturing me) for eight years was completely dead.  No one else on this planet could possibly understand what this felt like but Mike.

 Mike's wedding as well as the onset of Fibromyalgia have completely closed the door on what feels like three quarters (or more) of my self.  I tell my friends and family that I feel like a shell of who I once was but I don't think they really understand.  How could they.  I never could have imagined what this felt like.

My living room window looks out upon the Pacific ocean.  I watch the sea intently every day; calm and blue, then white with wind-driven froth, choppy in a breeze, constantly changing before my eyes.  I can look upon it as a spectator but I cannot participate.  The first affliction that prevented my vision from becoming reality, Panic Disorder, is still there, only lying dormant, waiting until I'm on the sea again.  My second affliction, Fibromyalgia, seems to make the first or any other deterrent seem irrelevant.

Me and the Sea

The following is a piece I started writing in 2002.  I've posted it now as a (very long) prologue to my next post:

From as early as I can remember, the sea has played a huge part in my life.  As soon as we were able to hold up our heads, my younger brother and I spent every spring, summer and autumn on our parents 36’ Colonial - "Valhalla", a beautiful wooden 1960’s cabin cruiser.  In the late winter and spring we “helped” our parents’ as it took many full, tiring weekends for them to prepare Valhalla for launching.  My father would replace rotted planks and caulk, repair the diesel engine and an endless list of other tasks.  My mother scraped, sanded and painted the hull and interior from stem to stern, she sewed curtains, cushions & sheets for the bunks.  My brother and I made friends with the other children in the boatyard and we all ran among the dirt piles and chased after hermit crabs in the mud. 

When Valhalla was finally afloat, we spent summers and autumns in various anchorages in New Jersey's Raritan Bay or cruising up the Hudson River, Long Island Sound, Fire Island, Block Island, Cape May and so many other places.  We were all in love with the sea and my father who is of Norwegian descent, claimed it was in our blood.  Sometimes during storms, my brother and I would crouch snuggled together in a corner of the salon, scared and begging our father to turn the boat around.  But he and my mother would reassure us that we were safe, and we knew deep down that we were.  Some of my fondest memories are of sitting on Valhalla's fly bridge, my father standing at the helm, gripping the classic wooden spoked wheel with a grin ear to ear, his dark brown hair blowing in the wind and his eyes tightly squinted in the sun.  As we climbed up waves and surfed down them my father would yell "WOOO HOOO" as though he were a child on an amusement park ride.  I took for granted his ability to fix anything that went wrong or broke down and to steer Valhalla through storms and fog without a hitch.  As a child, he seemed part magician part Superman.  I would lean my head against the rail with such contentment and become hypnotized by the brown foamy water gurgling by the hull (this was during the 1970's before they realized that dumping raw sewage from NY City into the harbor and bay was not such a great idea). 

The smells and sounds of Valhalla gave me such comfort.  During winter, while snuggled in my bed unable to sleep, I'd try my hardest to recreate the sounds of the water swishing past the hull as my brother and I heard it from our bunks in the bow of Valhalla.

In 1984 my father was forced to sell Valhalla due to engine problems that were too expensive to fix.  My brother and I had gotten to the age where we were getting involved with school activities and sports and had begun to take Valhalla for granted.  We didn’t really understand what we were losing until she was gone.  Valhalla had always been there.  She had been a part of our lives, almost a family member.  I remember crying alone after my father told us she had been sold.  He sold her for $500 because her engines didn’t work, and with the advent of fiberglass, no one wanted to do the work involved with owning a wooden boat. She was probably bought for scrap but my father never told me and I'm glad he didn't.   Losing her was a very sad day for our family.  We had made so many memories within her bulkheads.

For 5 years our family was boatless.  We tried going to the beach in the summer to be near the ocean we missed, but somehow it wasn’t the same.  Looking out at the sea from the shore was entirely different from floating atop it.  In 1989 my father was able to purchase an older, used 27’ Bayliner express cruiser.  The joy was back!  It was as though we were picking up from where we left off.  My parents planned trips and again, my brother and I cruised the places of our childhood, now as young teenagers.  As time went on, my parents sold the Bayliner and bought a 36’ Regal express cruiser.  By this time, my brother and I were in college.  Our lives were beginning to take their own paths, but we never passed up the opportunity for a family cruise or just a weekend in Horseshoe Cove.  My family was so happy together on the sea.

I adored my parents’ boat and being out on the sea, but from a young age, I remember staring longingly at the boats in the bay heeled over on their sides with white sails billowing in the wind.  When my brother and I were very young, an older, single man lived on a beautiful wooden sailboat in the dock next to ours.  We became friends and when he invited us aboard, the oil lamps, round brass port holes, gimbaled stove and shiny varnished teak struck me as one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.  I knew nothing of sailing at the time, but hoped  I would learn one day.  I was fascinated by how fast the wind-driven hulls glided through the water without an engine and as I got older and more concerned with the environment, I loved the idea that they were utilizing a natural resource rather than polluting the air and water.  I had never even been on a sailboat while under sail but their pure elegance drew me in.  I imagined being out in the open ocean, no land in site, sails flying and salt spray on my face.  I began to feel a deep urge to travel the world's oceans on a sailboat.

My life continued to take it’s own course.  Immediately after college, I got married and my husband Rob and I moved to Highlands, NJ a small fishing town on the New Jersey Shore.  I loved living by the ocean, and took every opportunity to walk on the beach after work or on weekends.  My little dog Happy also loved romping in the waves and sand on a hot day and chasing the sea birds.  My husband knew of my dream and thought it might be a good idea, but maybe when we retired.  I was disappointed, but figured I would learn as much as I could about sailing in the meantime and maybe get the chance to crew on someone else’s sail boat.  After all, my older brother had just purchased a 37’ Endeavor sloop.  Rob and I went to Sail Expo in Atlantic City each January and drooled over the shiny new sailboats, but the dream of sailing into the sunset was a long long way down the road.  Rob was more focused on his career.  I continued to work at my crappy low  paying job, all the while wondering what I was really meant to do in life. 

My marriage, for many different reasons, didn’t work out.  Rob and I split up in August of 1999…our 3^rd anniversary.  It was the most painful thing I had ever endured.  I was plagued by extreme anxiety, depression and insomnia.  I lost weight and started wondering what about life made it worth living.  I moved back in with my parents and my dream all but disappeared beneath a shroud of apathy and darkness.  My only priority was making it through each day without drinking too much or eating too little.  The thought that I could even drive to work and back each day seemed an almost insurmountable task.

As time went on, my deep wounds began to heal and scar over.  With the help of medication, my anxiety attacks and depression lessened.  I began to look farther into the future than just that day.  Slowly as I felt my emotional state stabilizing, my sailing dream peaked its way from underneath the shroud and started to occupy more of my conscience again.  It was still a far off dream though.  I could never afford even an old beat up boat, and I didn’t want to do it alone anyway.  I told myself to be patient, that someday, my dream may manifest itself.

Then I met Mike.  On the first day we met, through a mutual friend, I mentioned something about wanting to sail around the world.  His eyes lit up and he yelled “ME TOO!”.  We started dating and as time went on, our plan began to take shape.  We would buy a boat, spend a year or so learning to sail it, then take off for Hawaii.  It was ambitious and a bit foolish in retrospect, but we were on a mission.  I had never felt such a purpose in life.  We took sailing lessons and read every book and magazine we could get our hands on.  We went to SailExpo and attended as many seminars as we could fit into our schedule.  My excitement was at a level I had never felt before.  It seemed as though every decision we made revolved around our plan.  It was all we ever talked about.  It was all I thought about.

We searched the boat classifieds and looked at a couple of “wrecks” when we finally saw Perdida, a 35’ 1972 Allied Seabreeze Yawl, for sale on the Internet.  She was absolutely beautiful.  Touted as a sturdy off-shore cruiser and a classic, we were anxious to see her.  When we finally traveled to Port Washington, NY on Long Island to see her, we fell in love at first site.  She was a bit over our price range, but she was structurally sound and had been kept in pretty good shape especially for her 30 years.  It was possible that she may have been one of the beautiful sailboats I had admired as a child in the 1970's.  She was one year older than I was.

It was January, and we put a deposit down on her.  I had never been so excited.  I couldn’t sleep at nigh,t barely able to believe that my dream, our dream, was actually happening.  Images of Mike and I anchored in tropical anchorage’s around the world flashed through my head like a slide show on high speed.   I continued to read all I could.  I wanted to be an expert on everything.  I made lists of repairs we would need to make and researched on the Internet how others had gone about doing them.  We joined the Allied Seabreeze Owners Association and took advantage of the organization's vast knowledge of Seabreezes.  I read many books about the cruising lifestyle and some of the stories intimidated and even scared me.  I knew that there would be some really bad and scary times, after all, I had experienced some pretty scary times out on the sea, and although they paled in comparison to some of the stories I read, I was confident that I had a solid basic understanding of the sea from which to build upon.  If I were going to be afraid of the ocean, I would certainly have known it by now.  We began buying some of the equipment we would need.  Especially charts of the Long Island Sound, NY for sailing Perdida down to her new home in Monmouth Beach, New Jersey.

I’m not sure when the transition actually took place.  I can’t remember it happening at a distinct time, all I know is that the reasons for my sleeplessness changed from excitement to overwhelming panic.  I started having vivid nightmares about violent storms at sea and survival situations.  I thought in my head “this must be what everyone goes through when they are faced with a change in lifestyle,  I’m just having normal anxiety.  It should go away in time.”  The nightmares got worse not better.  I would wake up sweating and shaking in fear.  I couldn’t go back to sleep.  As time went on, the anxiety level increased during my waking hours as well.  I found that I couldn’t think about anything else.  I imagined every catastrophe that could possibly happen on a sailboat.  The peaceful images of us anchored in a tropical lagoon were gone.  They were replaced with images of a sinking boat, 40 foot breaking waves, the mast snapping off and worse, Mike being knocked unconscious and falling overboard.  I began to question myself like I never had before. "Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this.  This was too intense.  I’m too much of a mental case, after all, I’ve suffered with Major Depression since childhood."  My excitement and faith in myself all but disappeared.

Soon my anxiety began to seep its way into other aspects of my life.  I was having a hard time at social gatherings.  I felt inadequate and never knew what to say to anyone.  Conversation was such a struggle that I began to fear holiday and family times.  I made excuses for missing dinners and gatherings and self-medicated with lots and lots of chardonay.

We sailed Perdida down from Port Washington in April of 2002.  My father and I took the train to NYC then the Long Island Rail Road to Port Washington where Perdida, our new boat, was docked.  I was definitely in a state of panic, but my father was there and that made me feel slightly more at ease.   The night before we set sail, I had a full blown panic attack on our newly purchased dream boat.  I shook and cried uncontrollably.  I felt like my life was completely out of my control. Why was this happening to me?   I couldn’t stop crying and shaking.  My heart felt as though it would pound out of my chest, and even the sight or mention of food made me nauseated.  Mike tried to comfort me, but he didn’t know what to do or how to help me.  I can’t remember ever feeling so terrified.  I didn't know at the time, but that horrible out of control feeling was about to become the thing that would rule my life for the next few years.

What was happening to me?  Why was my brain so out of control?  How could I go from being so excited and confident to shaking and terrified?  Even being on my parents' boat, something that had always been so comforting, was giving me anxiety.  I was becoming deathly afraid of the one thing I had always loved and taken comfort in - the sea.  How could this be happening? 

I began seeing my therapist again after not having gone for over a year.  I was put on a different type of anti-depressant, one that had shown positive results in those experiencing anxiety.  I was also given  Ativan, a sedative, for the severe attacks.  We explored my problems in therapy.  There were many times I just wanted to give up the dream…give up the boat.  It was just too painful, too torturous.  Somehow, weekend after weekend; I summoned the strength to go out on the boat even though it was like a horrible form of torture.  I took the tranquilizers and talked myself out of most of the bad attacks, but some took a hold of me and I just couldn’t shake them loose. 

One afternoon Mike and I were getting ready to back Perdida out of the slip to go out for a day of sailing.  He was at the helm and I was on the bow to throw off the dock lines.  Suddenly, I was hit with such a severe sense of panic that I became paralyzed.  My vision became so blurred, I could barely see.  I was so light headed, I thought I would pass out.  It’s hard to explain what was going through my mind.  The only words that come to mind are primal panic.  Panic so strong that I thought I was going to die any moment.  I have heard that when a person is in a life threatening situation, their "life flashes before their eyes", if you'll excuse the cliche.  Although I have never realistically been in a life threatening situation, I imagine what I felt was similar.  Images of death and catastrophe flashed through my mind and I could hardly breathe.  My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking violently.  Mike was yelling to me from the helm but I couldn’t move.  “What are you doing ?” he yelled repeatedly.  Finally he re-tied the stern lines, shut off the engine and walked up to the bow.  I was still clutching the bow line tightly in my hand.  He tried to take it out of my hand but I held it tighter.  I was scared to death to let it go.  Why?  Well…..that’s the question I have never been able to answer.  I spent the next few months trying to figure it out.  An explanation alluded me, and still does.  Obviously it had something to do with my fears about sailing or the ocean, but what exactly?  Why now?

I continued to force myself to go to the marina almost every weekend.  Every time we left the dock or even talked about leaving the dock, the anxiety kicked in.  I tried to make excuses for why we shouldn’t go out.  Mike was very supportive and tried gently to force me to confront my fears.  As the summer went on, my fears ebbed and flowed like the tide but were always there under the surface if not right out in front.  As we experienced more things, my fears became less irrational sometimes, but they were always there, holding me back as though I were lashed to a tree.

After having her transported by truck, Mike and I are now living and cruising on Perdida in Southern California and planning our Hawaii trip in April or May of this year.  I still haven’t given up the dream, although it has been the hardest thing I've ever lived through (yes, even harder than the divorce).  I am still dealing with the disappointment I feel towards myself and the feeling that I’ve let us both down.  I have been very humbled.  How could I have been so arrogant to think that all of my dreams would happen without hard work and even pain and suffering?  The real lesson here is that when something is really important maybe it shouldn’t come easily.  By working hard for something or someone, only then does it become a real part of who you are.  The suffering is the real gift if you can learn to accept it as such.  It is the everyday journey you take in life that defines you as a person, not your final destination.

Frustration Mounts...

Tuesday was my much anticipated doctor appointment.  The visit was anticlimactic to say the least.  I shouldn't have been surprised, I wasn't actually.  I expected nothing and that's almost what I ended up with.  When I finally got to see the doctor (after sitting in the exam room for close to an hour and while my very cranky one year old tried to open every drawer in the room) she apologized for not having returned my calls.  She explained that the rhumatologist she consults with had been "out of the office" for the last two weeks and promised she would call him as soon as he were back in the office.  I told her I had been feeling worse and worse and asked if she could prescribe one of those fancy new drugs made specially to treat fibromyalgia.  I was so desperate for some relief.  In the past we'd ruled these drugs out due to their prohibitive cost, but I didn't care anymore, I had to do something.  If I had to, I'd cash in my 401K.  She agreed and prescribed the new drug Savella.  She promised she would call as soon as she spoke to the rhumatologist and that she would fax the prescription to the pharmacy.

A couple of hours later I walked to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription.  After checking with the Pharmacist, the cashier told me that they hadn't received anything from the clinic for me.  I sighed deeply and walked out the door while dialing the clinic on my cell phone.  My doctor wasn't available, of course, so the receptionist said she would leave a "call back".  I waited all day and even called again but never received a call.  The next morning I started calling again.  The receptionist at the clinic was shocked of course that the doctor hadn't called me back and swore she'd given her the message.  She was with a patient but the receptionist promised to "grab" her as soon as she was finished.  Later in the day someone finally got her to fax the prescription.  When I called the pharmacy they said they had received the prescription but that they didn't have Savella in stock.  They'd ordered it and would have it the next day.

The next day I called the pharmacy and they said the prescription would be ready around noon.  I picked it up at one, then my husband and I took our daughter on the glass-bottomed boat to see the fish which she absolutely loves.  My husband held her, carried her and pushed the stroller since I wasn't able to.  Afterwards, my husband saw a sign at a restaurants advertising a corn beef sandwich lunch special.  Since it was St. Patrick's Day, he decided he had to have one.  While he was eating I started reading the literature that came with the prescription.  About halfway through the first page, bold and in all caps it read "DO NOT take this medication if you are also taking an SSRI".  Shit!  I'm taking 200mg of Zoloft per day which is an SSRI.

After lunch we went back to the pharmacist and asked him about the conflicting drug interaction.  His opinion was that I shouldn't do anything until talking to my doctor.  Holy shit!  Was I an unwitting subject on some sick version of Candid Camera or something?  Could this really be happening or was it just another of those fibro induced nightmares I live through every night? 

We went back home and I got on the phone yet again.  I begged the receptionist at the clinic to please have my doctor call me right away.  The staff at the clinic must have thought I'd lost my mind or something. After all, how could so many things possibly go wrong day after day?  They again promised they would tell the doctor that she needed to call me and I thanked them for being patient with me and reiterated that I knew none of them was to blame.  I waited all day again and received no response. 

At this point I was so beaten down that I just cried.  Of course this made my fibro flare up even more.  My husband was so angry he was ready to kill someone.  I felt completely ignored and insignificant.  Was I just going to have to live like this for the rest of my life; like a cripple?  I waited another night, trying to be as patient as possible.  The next morning I called the clinic and demanded to speak to my doctor.  "I have to speak to her today...period."  I hated being a bitch but this was clearly out of control.  I was really suffering and my own doctor wouldn't even return my calls.  Finally, about an hour later she called.  "What's going on?" she asked seeming at first surprised at my desperation.  I told her about the drug interactions and she seemed confused.  She said she would have to research it and call me right back.  She did actually call back in about 20 minutes and told me not to take the Savella.  Since I had been doing so much research on the web, I suggested that I switch to a tricyclic antidepressant that had been shown to be more effective with fibro patients and that I would also be able to take the Savella at the same time.  She agreed but didn't know how slowly to titrate me off the Zoloft so she would check with her psychiatrist friend and call me back.

Who knows when and if she will call back.  Basically I'm no further ahead than I was before the doctor appointment.  I seem to be building an immunity or something to the drugs I am on because I'm feeling worse and my sleep disturbances are returning.  Last night I had nightmares about crushed baby skulls and many other terrifying scenarios.  I also spent most of the night awake on and off.  I slept on the couch so as to not disturb my husband.