It was at the fourth pharmacy that I finally secured the prescription I had been pursuing. “Yes, we have it,” the pharmacist informed me, “but please be aware that this is a controlled substance. You’ll need a handwritten prescription from your doctor every month to get refills.”
I nodded, fighting back tears and quickly looking away. She handed me a bottle filled with thirty unassuming capsules and sent it through a chute along with a stack of paperwork. “Do you have any questions?”
Yes, a million questions swirled in my mind. “No, thank you,” I managed to say, rolling up my car window as I drove away, tears streaming down my cheeks as I exited the pharmacy lot.
During my pregnancy with my son, I adhered strictly to every guideline. I took my prenatal vitamins, avoided artificial sweeteners, and abstained from alcohol. I craved Thai food and wasabi but only consumed cooked sushi. I ensured my bathwater was never too hot and didn’t take even a single Tylenol. I found comfort in following these rules, believing my cautiousness provided some assurance for my baby’s well-being. When he was born healthy, I felt a wave of relief.
Fast forward ten years, and here I sat in the worn passenger seat of my minivan, gripping a bottle of amphetamines that bore my son’s name. I skimmed the accompanying literature in the Starbucks parking lot, unable to face bringing it home. The list of potential side effects—elevated blood pressure, heart rate issues, hallucinations, addiction, and even sudden death—was daunting. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I let the tears fall.
We are the family that never keeps Motrin on hand for headaches or fevers. We don’t even take vitamins. While we’re not against medication, we use it so rarely that we frequently discard expired bottles. I strive for the “safest” sunscreen, select aluminum-free deodorants, and purchase organic produce and dairy. Generally, I am risk-averse, and the thought of giving my child what is essentially speed terrified me.
This is a child I breastfed exclusively for over a year, carefully avoiding any formula to preserve his gut health. The irony of now considering medication to alter his brain chemistry weighed heavily on me.
Before arriving at this moment, I grappled with countless questions: Is this behavior typical? Why is he unhappy? Why does he struggle with school? What can we do to help him? Will he always feel this way? I spent many nights crying myself to sleep, searching for answers through books, websites, and consultations with doctors, counselors, and psychiatrists. We tried cognitive behavioral therapy, breathing techniques, and various coping strategies, only to realize that the human brain is complex, and there are no simple solutions.
I read articles that frightened and shamed me. I pondered alternative education options or homeschooling, but my son craved stability and wanted to remain with his friends—the source of his happiness. His teachers, who genuinely cared for him, collaborated with me to support his needs. After three years of exhausting all other avenues, we reached a point where medication seemed to be the next step.
However, this decision came with immense reluctance. How do you administer a controlled substance, an addictive drug, to your child and act as if it’s a normal part of life? No mother envisions medicating her child when embarking on the parenting journey. Yet how could I not explore every possible avenue to assist my son in battling the daily challenges that weighed on him, challenges that no amount of determination or therapy could resolve? I promised to do everything within my power to ease my son’s struggles—his fierce love and hard work deserved that chance.
Parenting is ultimately a leap of faith. From the moment a baby is placed in our arms to the moment we watch them venture into the world as independent individuals, we gather information and make decisions based on what we know at that time. We face countless unknowns and possibilities, but ultimately, we must trust ourselves to make the best choice. This uncertainty can be the most daunting aspect of parenting. Despite our research and adherence to guidelines, we can never predict every outcome. There are no guarantees. We may make mistakes or find success, but we must move forward regardless.
So we hold our children’s hands and take the plunge.
I cannot yet say if medication is the solution or if it will transform my son’s life or our family’s dynamic. I cannot predict if it will relieve the burdens he carries or enable him to find joy at home and in school—where he excels academically but has faced unhappiness. However, I have witnessed 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 hopeful.
For more about parenting and family support, you can explore resources like March of Dimes, which offers valuable information on pregnancy. If you’re interested in home insemination, check out this article for practical tips. Additionally, discover more about enhancing fertility for men here.
Summary
In this poignant reflection, a mother navigates the emotional turmoil of deciding to medicate her son after years of seeking answers to his struggles. Despite her initial aversion to medication, she ultimately recognizes the need to explore every option to support her child. The journey of parenting is portrayed as a leap of faith, where uncertainty looms, but hope begins to shine through.
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