It’s been five weeks of brain drain: memory lapses, unproductive fretting, poor sleep and worst of all: poor flow of post ideas. Enough already.

Denial (No problem, it’ll go away by itself…) is no longer tenable. Time to do something. But… what?

Without knowing the cause of the problem, intervention is futile. So first: think. (Can we not, and say we did?)

What’s the differential diagnosis? Three possibles raise their hands.

dementia
depression
exhaustion

The first is unthinkable. So forget that. Ha. (Sorry.)

What about depression? (What about it?) I’ve had these symptoms for more than two weeks, which meets criteria for the diagnosis. Which justifies a trial of antidepressant. But that’s jumping ahead. (Damn skippy.)

Why? Because psychiatric diagnoses are diagnoses of exclusion. Meaning, all other medical causes for symptoms must first be ruled out and/or addressed. And that would be option number three: exhaustion.

Exhaustion and sleep deprivation are well known to derail cognition and snuff creativity. Have I made a serious effort to rest? Not really. It’s been business as usual: too much going on, not enough sleep, not enough down time.

To test the hypothesis that exhaustion is the cause of my symptoms and rest the cure, what I have to do is… rest. How?

I feel tired just thinking about the pace of my life. Doctor, heal thyself. So. What specifically am I over-doing?

Care-taking others: patients and family.
Administering: home and office.

It’s too much. Too many details. Too many decisions. Too many people pulling on me. From morning to night. Day after day. Etc.

Like Greta Garbo, I want to be alone.

The solution is obvious: I’ll play hooky! I’ll go to Omega for a weekend of R & R (Rest & Rejuvenation)! he he he

Two days later, I drive south to Rhinebeck. The first couple hours on the Northway cut through the ancient evergreen beauty of the Adirondack Park, a six million acre natural preserve. For a timeless hour, I enjoy.

Then orange traffic cones appear, and signs indicating a construction merge. I absent-mindedly barrel along and about a mile later, the left lane narrows into the right. I tap tap tap the brake in a controlled deceleration. A state trooper pulls out of a tangle of construction equipment, flashing his headlights at me.

I know immediately: the ticket won’t sting, it’ll gore.