Updated: July 12, 2017
Originally Published: May 16, 2014
The fourth pharmacy I visited finally accepted my prescription. “Yes, we have this,” the pharmacist informed me. “But keep in mind, it’s classified as a controlled substance. You’ll need a new handwritten prescription from your doctor each month for refills.” I nodded, quickly averting my gaze, desperately trying to maintain my composure. She filled a bottle with thirty seemingly harmless capsules and sent it my way through a chute filled with paperwork. “Any questions?”
Yes. I had a million questions. “No, thank you,” I replied, rolling up my car window as tears streamed down my cheeks while I turned out of the pharmacy parking lot.
During my pregnancy with my son, I adhered strictly to every guideline. I took all my prenatal vitamins, avoided artificial sweeteners, turned down deli meats, and abstained from alcohol entirely. Craving Thai food and wasabi, I only indulged in cooked dishes, steering clear of raw sushi. I ensured my bathwater was never too hot and didn’t take even a single Tylenol. I found comfort in these “rules,” believing they somehow guaranteed safety during those nine months. I felt immense relief when he was born healthy.
Fast forward ten years, and here I was in the worn passenger seat of my overworked minivan, clutching a bottle of amphetamines bearing my son’s name. As I sat in the parking lot of Starbucks, I scanned the medication literature, unable to take it home just yet. Among the potential side effects listed were increased blood pressure, heart rate, psychotic symptoms like hearing voices, addiction, and even sudden death. Overwhelmed, I rested my head on the steering wheel, surrendering to the tears.
We are the family that rarely has 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 end up in the trash. I obsess over finding the “safest” sunscreen, choose aluminum-free deodorant for my boys, and buy organic produce and milk. Generally, I am risk-averse. The prospect of putting my child on what is essentially speed horrifies me.
This is the same child I exclusively breastfed for over a year, determined to maintain his gut health by avoiding formula. That seems absurdly naive now as I contemplate altering his brain chemistry with medication. On purpose.
Years of questions plagued me before that moment at the steering wheel: Is this normal? Why isn’t he happy? Why does he dread school? Why is he perpetually angry? Can we help him? How? Will he always feel this way? Countless nights were spent crying myself to sleep, desperately seeking answers. I devoured books and browsed websites. We consulted doctors, counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists. We explored cognitive behavioral therapy, breathing exercises, and coping strategies. The complexity of the human brain became painfully clear. There are no easy solutions.
I read articles that terrified me and others that instilled shame. I considered alternative schooling or homeschooling, but my son longed for stability and to remain with his friends—the people who made him happiest. I couldn’t uproot him from that support. I collaborated with his teachers, all of whom cared deeply for him, providing consistent communication and support. After three years of exhausting every other avenue, it was time to explore medication.
So we did, albeit with great reluctance and hesitation. My heart felt heavy, and there were moments where I questioned whether I could go through with it. How could I give my child a controlled substance, an addictive drug, and pretend it was normal? No mother ever envisions medicating her child. Yet, how could I not do everything possible to help my son, who battles daily with challenges that cannot be overcome through sheer willpower or all the therapy money can buy? I had committed to doing anything to ease my little boy’s struggles, who loves fiercely and works hard yet still faces hurdles. I had to try.
Parenting is a continuous leap of faith. Every decision—from the moment a baby is placed in our arms to watching our children grow into independence—is made with the best information we have at that time. There will always be uncertainties and countless “what-ifs,” but ultimately, we must trust ourselves and choose. This aspect of parenting is daunting; we realize that no amount of research or rule-following can control everything. There are no guarantees. We could be making a mistake or the right choice. The future is unclear, yet we must forge ahead.
So we hold our children’s hands and leap.
I can’t yet say whether medication is the answer or if it will transform my son’s life or our family’s. I don’t know if it will alleviate the burdens he carries, allowing him to smile more often at home and perhaps even find joy at school, where he excels academically and is well-loved yet has been miserable. What I can say is that I’ve begun to witness moments of brightness, glimpses of smiles that were previously absent, and a sense of calm in our home that we had never known before.
For the first time in a long while, I feel hope.