"He wants to see you"

AGH. My day started out pretty well. I discovered two active, unharmed, baby mockingbirds in the kitchen. First time ever. The cats brought them in through the cat door. I locked up the cats and scooped up the birds, placing them into a bowl. They started peeping at me, little mouths open wide enough to hold a grape (God only knows how long the poor things had been there before I woke up). I didn't want to put them out on the lawn, so I brought the bowl into my computer room. I booted the PC and logged on (dialup). Googled "rescue baby wild birds". Got a boatload of good links.

Get this, you feed baby wild songbirds - moistened dry cat or dog food. I'm here to say, they were digging it. They'd gulp it down and peep for more, climbing over each other to reach "Mama Hand". It's a beautiful memory I'll cherish. My links said that since they are fledged (full coat of feathers, which is how I recognized they're Mockingbirds), just put them out in the tree. Actually, they said if they just fell out, put them in the tree, if a cat brought it home it's as good as dead. I'm stubborn. I put them out anyway, I couldn't keep them, not with the cats.

Next thing I know they are running around on the lawn, Mama is feeding them, happy ending. They were gone (all 3) when I got back so I assume they're "moved". Poor Mama bird must have been so freaked when she saw her "Babies" being carried off my 12 pound housecats.

Not something that happens every day. But by the time I was a couple of hours at work, I realized I was getting manic - or rather more manic. I couldn't shut up talking and I just feel really itchy, inside and out. I wondered if I should call my doctor, and finally decide if I'm manic and I think I need to call him, then I should. My beloved Bipolar Survival Guide told me I should. God knows I don't want a horrible freak-out episode like I did in Oct, 1998. Ugh. That's my boogyman of bipolar "episodes". I wasn't hospitalized but I really should have been, it was terrible.

So a couple hours later, and some aggravation with a paratransit ride, later... the doctor calls back. His assistant told me to cut back on my antidepressant and "He wants to see you, we have some openings tomorrow."

I don't want to go. I don't want to be sick, damnit! AGH! But I'm going. I hate being sick.

I'll post on what he tells me tomorrow.