In a dispositional cataclysm of apocalyptic proportions, Brian is feeling optimistic (even hopeful!) about Carter’s med changes, while I’m reduced to chronic heartburn over it all. I’d probably feel better if I didn’t read absolutely everything (Everything! Because I’m a good mother! Informed! Conscientious!) about childhood mental illness and its medications. The atypical antipsychotics and the skyrocketing rate of prescriptions for children are all over the news these days (So dangerous your kid might spontaneously combust following the first dose!), and I’m like those poor shepherds in the dark field: sore afraid.
We avoided this class of medications for a long time. They’ve been on the table for almost a year, and I kept pushing them back. So we tried something else, and something else, and something else, and Carter raged on, full of self-hatred and bitter regret after every seizure-like episode. And since our fundamental question, our driving philosophy, about meds has always been, “Do the potential risks outweigh the potential benefits of this medicine?”, and that equation had shifted, we leapt.
Knowing that we made a careful decision with the help of a knowledgeable, med-conservative psychiatrist who we trust is not the same as knowing we made the right decision. There’s no way to know, before we try the meds, that we’ve made the right decision, and that blows.
We made the med change (adding one (risperdal), discontinuing one, and beginning to wean off one other) on Tuesday. So of course that’s not enough time yet to see any real change.
In other news…nope, no other news. Carter is symptomatic; therefore, that’s it that’s all that’s my whole life. Right now, at this moment, he’s relaxed and content and I’m writing a blog post. Soon we will go make some lunch and read some books about lizards. Everything else is everything else.
*12 style points to the first person who can tell me from which movie this blog post’s title came. Because I’m cool like that.