June 20, 2016
We are in the process of determining the right dosage of Ritalin for my kid. We went in for another medication review appointment with a child psychiatrist. I noted the improvements — there are two. She has been better about taking re-direction and there has been a noticeable decrease in emotional meltdowns at home. However, the non stop chattering, interrupting, and pestering remains the same. Likewise, her teacher noted she still has strong reactions to little things in the classroom to the extent of requiring a school staff person to be called in to help calm her down. In her defense, the end of the school year can be difficult for a lot of children. It’s emotional. The psychiatrist discussed things further with me — asking questions, asking for descriptive situations. The doctor recommended a slight increase in the dosage, a slight titration. We would meet for another medication review in a month.
The bio-chemistry relationship involved with psychotropic drugs continues to fascinate me. Could we have a little more of this so that we get a little less of that? A little more chemical input to decrease the behavioral output. I was hoping that once my daughter could pull in the reins on her running thoughts, I would be able to do therapeutic exercises to help her stop, pause, and make a good choice. Maybe medication is similar to finding a fertilizer that works best on the yard — bringing out the desirable green grass, encouraging new growth, and suppressing the unsightly weeds.
I tried not to examine each blade of her existence. Yet, I wanted to carefully keep note of behaviors improving, antics remaining the same, or difficult ones increasing in frequency. We had a little of each. What a relief to have fewer emotional meltdowns over for example, “Please go play outside, it’s nice and sunny and your brother wants to practice his drums in the playroom.” Still the same ones of non-stop chattering and nonsensical arguing. And then the last one. More stealing and sneaking behaviors– taking notecards from my desk, emptying out brother’s emergency inhaler (placed on his bedside table), and climbing onto the counters to reach an item on a high shelf. I even tried out this one because I doubted her abilities. I climbed up on the countertop. I remained on my knees to account for her 42 inch height and reached my arm up high. Yup, it was doable. It was totally possible to reach the now consumed 8 pack hamburger bun package. Silly me for placing it there, for thinking that our family of five could have Sloppy Joes later this week. Instead we had pasta with meat sauce, a tangy BBQ flavored meat sauce.
DCIS Treatment Options
Ever since I got the voicemail. I feel different — my outlook is different, I breathe differently. My doctor’s nurse left a message informing me to come in the following morning with my spouse to discuss the findings of the biopsy. We knew this meant the cells are not benign.
Everything was different now. I had been struggling with identity issues related to being a stay at home parent and unemployed. I had been feeling depressed. I had been feeling concerned about my life goals. Now, I’m not yearning for anything. I’ve moved away from a feeling of wanting to take inventory, wanting to move forward, wanting to accomplish. I don’t feel that way anymore. I feel that would be indulgent– to want. I feel a strange calmness.
After I heard the message, I went through something. Nothing amazing or poetic, I didn’t see a different spectrum of lights or an amazing palette of colors or hear angels trumpeting. I just went through some typical Kuebler-Ross stages on and off, quickly, and out of order. I blamed myself for increasing my alcohol intake to a daily drink in the past year. I blamed myself for not running weekly and feeling lazy about working out. I felt anger about worrying so much over family members, so much that I had developed cancerous cells. I hoped and prayed that if my prognosis is good I would make significant changes to my diet and lifestyle. I got weepy looking around the schoolyard at dismissal time. I hoped to have many years of waiting for my 6 year old to be released by her teacher, to watch her classmates disperse to the field, parents, and play structure. I didn’t care about finding employment or my identity again. I knew what I wanted: to live and to be with my kids. It was a long night.
I had my annual mammogram done mid-May. I started going in for yearly ones in my late 30s; I’ve done the routine many times now. Yes, I know you will call me if there are concerns.
I got the call two days later. The radiologist saw something that was apparently not visible in the year before– she had compared the films. I was instructed to come in for a more detailed mammogram. I returned later that week. This time the focus was on my right breast – a few specialized images were taken. The technician waved me over to look. In the magnified film of my breast are 5 white dots. Teeny tiny round dots, likes ones a finely sharpened white pencil would make. A few together and two scattered. My initial reaction was: how did they see those in the one taken during my first appointment? The radiologist came in and explained the dots are circular in shape, there are only a few, they were not noticed last year and appear to be new, and many women in their aging develop breast calcifications. All of these factors are not red flags. However, she continued, one time she let it go and her patient developed cancerous cells a year later. Again, I was urged to continue with another more detailed procedure. I agreed to a biopsy for the following Monday.
We went camping with 12 families over the long holiday weekend. We were invited to join this large group for a three night trip. We had not gone camping for a while — my youngest not able to handle the usual activities of hiking, quietly sleeping with others in a tent and appreciating the outdoors. So initially, I was ready to spend just one night with her, ready to pack up our belongings and drive back home if necessary. Instead we decided our family would join the others early Saturday and return home late Sunday night. We all wanted this to work out. I know the names of all the parents and kids. I can identify the makes of the SUVs and vans they all drive. I can closely guess the grades the kids are in and the professions of the parents. Yet, I really don’t know most of these families that well. What I did find out during that weekend was that in our group, about ten households had an issue. I came to this awareness from listening to a parent of each family unit describe something troubling going on with their child — behaviors, medical concerns, mood disorder and social issues, sexuality, and learning problems. We all had children with special concerns. We all needed to seek professional help for our kids. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I saw my daughter in a different light– a more gentle glow. And my hubby and I relaxed a little. We were not going to stand out, we were not so different from the others. All those times we suffered behind our closed doors, disturbances were occurring in the privacy of other homes.