A significant portion of my day is spent crushing pills, mixing them into liquid elixirs, and administering them to the boys. I do this a lot. Like, more than I sweep or write or eat dark chocolate from the hidey hole I’ve contrived in my sock drawer.
I dose the meds roughly as often as I do laundry. It’s the new normal and believe me, it’s better than the alternative of having my eleven-year-old hurtling around like a 120 lb blunt instrument, hurting people and things. And nicer than my seven-year-old spinning off into space as a ball of shrieking anxiety.
And so, meds. They are a gift from heaven. Anyone who doesn’t think so has never raised my children. Better living through chemistry, my dad always says, to which I say, “AMEN!” and also “Pass me that ibuprofen, please.”
The pediatrician asked to what I attribute Jack’s recent improvement, and my answer was and is, “the meds, duh.” We have changed behavioral strategies and routines, but all that is ancillary to Jack’s brain and body feeling less frantic and tormented. The meds dial down the neuroses and bring happy Jack back, mostly.
Of course, nothing’s perfect, because otherwise it wouldn’t be real life. It would be paradise. The issues don’t entirely leave us, but we do manage to mostly peel them away and discard them, if we keep at it with regularity.
The anti-psychotic, the anti-anxiety, the anti-impulsivity, the anti-diarrheal, and the appetite suppressant are working together as a mystical cocktail to give us back our Jack. Most of the time.
So, as it remains, this is what I do here at home in my own little compounding kitchen-pharmacy. It’s a necessary thing, if a consuming one.
We do what it takes.