At last, the fourth pharmacy accepted the prescription I presented. “We have this, but please be aware that it’s a controlled substance,” the pharmacist informed me. “You’ll need a handwritten prescription from your doctor every month for refills.” I nodded, feeling my composure slip as I quickly averted my gaze. She filled the bottle with thirty seemingly harmless capsules and sent it my way through a chute, accompanied by a stack of paperwork. “Any questions?”
Oh, I had a million questions. But I simply replied, “No, thank you,” rolled up my car window, and drove away, tears streaming down my cheeks as I turned out of the parking lot.
During my pregnancy with my son, I adhered strictly to every guideline. I took my prenatal vitamins religiously, avoided artificial sweeteners, deli meats, and even abstained from alcohol. I craved Thai food and wasabi but only indulged in cooked sushi. I was meticulous about bathwater temperature and didn’t even take Tylenol. I took comfort in following these “rules,” feeling I was ensuring the safety of my baby. When he was born healthy, it felt like my efforts had paid off.
Fast forward ten years, and here I was, sitting in the worn-out passenger seat of my minivan, clutching a bottle of amphetamines that had my son’s name on it. As I read the accompanying literature in the Starbucks parking lot, I was paralyzed by fear. The potential side effects included increased blood pressure, heart rate, psychotic symptoms like hallucinations, addiction, and even sudden death. I buried my head on the steering wheel, overwhelmed.
We are the family that never keeps Motrin on hand for headaches or fevers. We don’t even take vitamins. While we aren’t against medication, we rarely use it, often tossing out expired bottles. I strive to find the most natural sunscreen, choose aluminum-free deodorants, and buy organic produce. I am generally risk-averse, so the thought of giving my child what is essentially a stimulant filled me with dread.
This is the same child I breastfed exclusively for over a year to protect his gut health from formula. Now, I was about to change his brain chemistry with medication. How could I reconcile that?
A flood of questions had preceded this moment: Is this behavior normal? Why isn’t he happy? Why does he dislike school? Can we help him? Will he always struggle? Countless nights were spent crying myself to sleep, desperately searching for answers. We consulted books, websites, doctors, counselors, therapists, and even tried cognitive behavioral therapy and breathing exercises. The complexity of the human brain is staggering; there are no simple solutions.
I read articles that frightened me, others that made me feel guilty. I even contemplated alternative schools or homeschooling, but that wasn’t what my son wanted. He craved stability and friendships. I couldn’t uproot him from the people who brought him joy. His teachers, who adored him, collaborated with me tirelessly through emails and calls. After three years of exploring every other option, we had run out of possibilities. It was time to consider medication.
When the decision came, it was laden with reluctance and doubt. I had moments where I wondered if I could go through with it. How could I administer a controlled substance, an addictive drug, and act like it was just another normal day? No mother ever imagines she’ll end up medicating her child. Yet, how could I not do everything possible to help my son, who faced challenges daily that I couldn’t solve through sheer determination or therapy alone? I promised to do anything to ease his struggles, so I had to try.
Parenting is a constant leap of faith. From the moment a baby is placed in our arms to watching them stride confidently into their future, we gather what information we have and make the best decisions we can. The unknowns are endless, filled with “what-ifs” and uncertainties, yet we must trust ourselves and move forward. It’s one of the most daunting aspects of parenting: no amount of research or rule-following provides certainty. We might make the wrong choice or perhaps the right one. The future remains murky, but we have to leap anyway.
So we take our children’s hands and jump.
I can’t definitively say if medication will transform my son’s life or our family’s dynamics. I can’t predict if it will lift the invisible weight he carries or allow him to find joy at home and school, where he has always excelled academically yet felt unhappy. However, I have started to see glimpses of light, moments of genuine smiles that were previously absent, and a tranquility in our home that we’ve never experienced before.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel hope.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative explores a mother’s struggle with the decision to medicate her son after years of trying alternative methods to address his emotional and behavioral challenges. It reflects on the uncertainties of parenting and the difficult choices that come with wanting the best for our children, ultimately leading to a glimmer of hope for a brighter future.