Parenting
The fourth pharmacy finally accepted my prescription. “Yes, we have this,” the pharmacist informed me. “However, please be aware that this is a controlled substance. You’ll need a new handwritten prescription from your doctor every month for refills.” I nodded, quickly averting my gaze, struggling to maintain my composure. She filled a bottle with thirty unassuming capsules and handed it to me, accompanied by a mound of paperwork. “Do you have any questions?”
Yes. A million questions swirled in my mind. “No, thank you,” I replied, rolling up my car window and driving away, tears streaming down my cheeks as I exited the pharmacy parking lot.
During my pregnancy with my son, I adhered to every guideline without fail. I took all my prenatal vitamins, avoided artificial sweeteners and deli meats, and abstained from alcohol entirely. Though I craved Thai food and wasabi, I only indulged in cooked sushi. I monitored my bathwater temperature to ensure it wasn’t too hot and refused to take even a single Tylenol. I was the type of expectant mother who found comfort in following the “rules;” playing it safe for nine months felt reassuring, as if I was guaranteeing my child’s well-being through my strict abstinence. When he arrived healthy, I felt immense relief.
Fast forward a decade, I found myself in the worn passenger seat of my aging minivan, holding a bottle of amphetamines with my son’s name on it. As I sat in the Starbucks parking lot, I read the accompanying literature, unable to take it home just yet. The potential side effects loomed large: increased blood pressure, heart rate, psychotic symptoms, addiction, even sudden death. I rested my head on the steering wheel, overwhelmed by emotion.
We are the family that rarely keeps Motrin on hand for headaches or fevers. We don’t even take vitamins. While we’re not against medication, we use it so infrequently that expired bottles often get tossed. I strive to find the “safest” sunscreen, buy aluminum-free deodorants, and opt for organic produce and milk. Generally, I am risk-averse. The thought of giving my child a medication that essentially functions as speed is, quite frankly, terrifying to me.
This is the same child I exclusively breastfed for over a year to avoid altering his gut flora with formula. That now seems foolish and naive, especially as I contemplate changing his brain chemistry with medication. Intentionally.
Years of questions flooded my mind before that moment with my head on the steering wheel. Is this normal? Why isn’t he happy? Why does he struggle with school? Why is he often angry? Can we help him? Will he always feel this way? I spent countless nights crying myself to sleep, desperately seeking answers. We consulted with doctors, counselors, and therapists. We explored cognitive behavioral therapy, breathing exercises, and coping strategies. The reality is that the human brain is complex, and there are no straightforward answers.
I read articles that terrified me and others that made me feel guilty. I considered alternative schooling or homeschooling, but that wasn’t what my son wanted. His issues weren’t confined to school; he craved stability and the company of his friends, the people who brought him joy.
After three years of exhausting every other option, we decided it was time to explore medication. This decision didn’t come easily. My heart felt heavy, and there were moments when I questioned if I could go through with it. How do you give your child a controlled substance, addictive drugs, and act as if it’s normal? No mother plans to medicate her child, but how can you refrain from doing everything possible to help a child who battles invisible demons every day? I was determined to ease my son’s struggles, to support the boy who loves fiercely yet faces daily challenges. I had to take the leap.
Parenting is a continuous act of faith. From the moment we cradle a newborn to the day we watch them head into the world independently, we gather information and make the best choices we can. There are countless uncertainties and “what-ifs,” but ultimately, we must trust ourselves and make decisions. It’s the scariest part of being a parent: understanding that no amount of research or adherence to rules can guarantee outcomes. We might make mistakes or find success. The future is unpredictable, but we have to move forward.
So we hold our children’s hands and take the plunge.
I can’t definitively say yet if medication is the answer for my son or if it will transform our family’s life. I don’t know if it will relieve the burdens on his shoulders and heart, allowing him to smile more at home and possibly enjoy school, where he has excelled academically yet felt miserable. However, I have noticed moments of joy, glimpses of smiles that were previously absent, and a newfound calm in our household over the past few weeks.
For the first time in a long while, I feel hope.
This article was initially published on May 16, 2014.