That’s What I’ve Been Trying to TELL You.
Dylan is back on stimulants. His neurologist, who worries substantially more about suicide than grades, prescribed the new stimulant “with trepidation.” She was very clear about the trepidation. He is taking Ritalin now instead of Adderall – and a very, very, very miniscule dose.
On day 2 of his minute dose, Dylan went to all of his teachers, turning in lost work and making arrangements to complete incomplete classwork.
“You did a really great job today,” I said.
“Well, DUH,” he sneered. “I think we know who to thank for that.”
I was stunned. “Who?”
“The doctor, of course,” he said. “I can finally understand what the teachers are saying!”
“Really?” I said. “The pill is helping?”
“DUH,” he said again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
I’m not sure when he was trying to tell me that. I thought I’d been listening pretty well.
During the doctor’s visit, unmedicated Dylan rolled around on the table, ripped up the white paper that covers the table, paced around the room and rammed his head into the wall a few times for good measure.
When I mentioned the rebound effect he’d had – the severe depression after school – he said, with dripping sarcasm, “Oh yeah, I wonder why that happened.”
So when the doctor stepped out of the room to take a call I said, “Do you think it’s my fault that you’re depressed after school?”
“No!” he said. “But do you really think I’m only that way at home?”
Ah, I thought, the light bulb going off over my head.
“So you are depressed all day long?” I asked my super-smiley, always enthusiastic, bouncy baby boy.
“Of course I am!” he declared with no smile.
“And you feel like that even without the drugs?”
So gee, he may as well be back on stimulants.
And next week, the dose goes up ever-so-slightly. “With trepidation.”