Still on the hunt for medication for Shane, we realized that he was doing way better.
During the weeks I spent trying to find the right doctor for Shane, some of life’s stressors had changed. Dylan had gone to college – and we’d all survived it.
And Shane was improving. He was following his prescribed course of treatment – basically, going against whatever the OCD said and “proving” that the OCD was full of crap.
For example, if the OCD said he was going to get sick because he ate an expired salad dressing, Shane would eat another salad with that same expired dressing. And the treatment was working.
But none of us forgot how awful it was, when the OCD was terrorizing Shane and he didn’t know how to handle it. So we decided to continue to pursue the medication idea, just in case he needed it again.
A friend recommended a group of psychiatrists who – surprise! – were also “in network” and took our insurance! It wasn’t nearby, but it would be worth it if we could – preferably quickly – get a prescription for anti-anxiety medication.
While we waited for our appointment day, I scoured the internet. I learned that there are four types of medication available to adolescent OCD patients. Then I did some additional scouring to learn the side effects. Of the four, I thought Prozac seemed the least harmful.
There were no appointments available with a “real” psychiatrist for months – of course – but a nurse practitioner saw us. We signed into a very generic, rather crowded waiting room, an hour from home, and waited.
The nurse practitioner was a man with a permanently furrowed brow. He spoke with a very heavy accent, and we had to ask him to repeat most of his questions. But Shane did the best he could to answer them. They were the same questions he’d answered a million times – mostly, “What thoughts do you have?” and “What do you do when you have those thoughts?”
The nurse practitioner looked very, very concerned for the entire fifteen-minute session. He typed and typed and typed on his laptop.
Then he looked up, folded his hands, and suggested Zoloft. I thought it had too many side effects, and suggested Prozac instead.
“It’s basically the same,” he said. And he called our local pharmacy and ordered a 30-day supply of Prozac.
Then he stood up and shook my hand. “You won’t know if it is working for about six to eight weeks,” he said. “I will see you in three weeks to make sure it is going well.”
Shane was surprised when I didn’t stop at the window and make another appointment. But I felt like a complete stranger had just ordered poison for my son.
Even though I’d been hunting it down, it felt wrong somehow to force him to take a pill every day for six to eight weeks – just to see if it’s working.
I’d done enough research to know that only about half of the people with OCD actually get relief from medication. And I also knew enough about the side effects to think the benefits might not be worth the risk.
I remembered the years of medication we gave to Dylan, only to end up with him in agony, and finally giving up and trying supplements.
Plus, Shane really is getting better with therapy alone.
The prescription for Prozac is still at the pharmacy.
Dylan is interested in music, and wants to work in the music business. But Dylan has decided he doesn’t really want to take any actual business courses.
He doesn’t like the idea of taking six hours of Accounting. He would rather not take Macroeconomics or Microeconomics, and both are required for the major he selected. He signed up for a Bachelor’s degree of Business Administration – a B.B.A. – but he is really only interested in the music part, not the business part.
For those trying to keep up, Dylan dropped out of the School of Music during his college orientation. He then registered with the School of Entertainment and Music Business.
But he has a point: he is not interested in business courses. He was also not interested in music classes.
Conveniently, Belmont University still has the perfect major for him.
I told him to look at the lists of classes, rather than the list of majors – which he did. He saw that one of the majors had a ton of interesting classes, nearly all of which he wanted to take – and within that major, he could have a music business concentration.
It is a major called Creative and Entertainment Industry Studies. Under this umbrella, Dylan can have a Music Business concentration.
And he can take a whole slew of classes he will enjoy. Instead of the more general business classes, he will be focusing on the business aspects of entertainment: TV, film, books and music. And in Dylan’s case, he will get plenty of additional music-focused classes.
Plus, if there were ever any doubt, Dylan will continue singing at college. He is already part of the University Singers choral group (a one-credit class). He also wants to start a band, of course, and everyone else at Belmont wants to start a band, too. So that could actually happen.
I do wonder when he’ll find time to study. But at least, now, he wants to take the courses in the list of requirements for his major.
In other words, Dylan has changed his major again. It’s his fourth major in nine months – but at least he feels good about this one.
For now.
I went to visit Dylan this weekend at college. He’s only been there two weeks, but my husband had a work conference near his school, so we both flew out to see him. (Bill had to work, too, poor guy.)
We waited a long time at the curb for Dylan to come out. I’d already forgotten how often Dylan was late. In fact, Shane and I have been on time to school every day since Dylan left – with a good 15 minutes to spare. We barely squeaked into the parking lot before the bell rang last year.
When he finally emerged, Dylan was more radiant than even I remembered. He trotted down the dorm steps, pushing his long hair back from his face, and I momentarily felt like I was watching a slow-motion shampoo commercial.
I leaped from the car, and ran to hug him, squealing Dylan-Dylan-Dylan-Dylan in a high-pitched voice I didn’t even recognize.
I hugged him.
“Hey, Mom,” he said as he hugged back. “What’s up?”
Dylan has always been cool. It’s a tough feat for someone as sensitive and intelligent as Dylan is, but he’s pulling it off.
We went out for dinner, then to lunch and dinner the next day, and we took a wonderful, woodsy walk, far away from the city, for more than an hour.
The only time I really felt like I was with Dylan was during that walk.
The rest of the time he seemed distracted, like he was supposed to be somewhere else but he was with us instead. He wasn’t rude by any stretch, but he was on his phone constantly – just like he was when he was at home – and we were never able to connect in any meaningful conversation.
Except on that walk. On the walk, Dylan was free. He was happy and enjoying the gorgeous summer day. He seemed to be part of the world, part of our world, part of everything. He didn’t seem distant or distracted. He seemed like Dylan.
Dylan’s classes are going well; he likes his teachers. He’s turned in assignments, done his homework early, and knows what he needs to do and when to do it. He’s getting things done, with no help from me.
But Dylan is new to living alone, unsure of what to do with us, as a unit, coming to peer into his new life. Yes, it was too soon to visit campus, to ask about anything social, to care what he was doing with his free time. It’s too early for him to be involved enough in anything to give a solid answer.
Still, it was wonderful to see him, to notice the process, to get the feel of the campus with my son as a real part of that community. And while it’s going to be awhile before “family weekend” happens, I’m already missing him – almost more than I was before – and I’m kinda sorry I visited so soon, if only because it just emphasized the distance between us.
Insurance covers almost nothing in the mental health world.
Our insurance, in particular, will only pay a premium (meaning, the actual fee) if a doctor is “in network.” But the doctors that are “in network” are usually booked for months in advance, since so very few therapists take insurance.
“In network,” only three therapists in our area specialize in the treatment of OCD. And only one of those three returned my calls – so he was our first choice. (And he’s in another county.)
Our in-network therapist sometimes seems like he’s reading instructions to us from a book. Shane’s doing fine, and therapy is helping, but I often wonder if Shane isn’t the therapist’s first-ever OCD patient.
So when he recommended that we try medication for Shane, we decided to give up on insurance and just find Shane some help.
I scoured the internet and made a list, mostly from Psychology Today online. And then I started calling psychiatrists, emailing psychiatrists, filling out online forms, and the like.
One group of psychiatrists told me that there was a three-month wait just to get an initial appointment. Another told me that I had to fill out a half dozen lengthy forms (which I did) before I could make an appointment.
Then I waited.
Some psychiatrists never even called back. Others called back only to tell me that they weren’t accepting new patients. And one called me to say that she had two available time slots – right in the middle of the school day – and that there was a two-month wait to get an appointment in the afternoon.
But I did get a call back from a psychiatrist who did things the old-fashioned way. He used his phone, and talked to me like a person. He seemed genuinely concerned that Shane get the help he needs, and he was able to see him right away.
“My wife specializes in OCD,” he told me. “She could do the assessment.”
I looked up the wife online, and sure enough – she only saw patients with OCD. She’d been seeing them for decades! We made an appointment for the very next day.
Yay! I thought. Finally! We can get a specialist and a prescription!
We paid $350 to sit across from an ancient woman who couldn’t really hear anything Shane said. The room – in the back of her house – was covered in antiques and military wall hangings that hadn’t been dusted since the dawn of time.
Fortunately, I witnessed the entire meeting, and knew that she wasn’t going to be a good fit for Shane. But I still needed that medication.
The OCD “specialist” finished his sentences, assuming he was saying things he wasn’t even saying. She guessed, based on what other OCD patients told her, and ended up “hearing” things that simply weren’t true. And then she told me he had “excessive” OCD and that he should be on medication as soon as possible.
“Okay,” I said, succumbing to her worldly wisdom. “Can you write us a prescription for something we can try?”
“Well my husband is the one who writes the prescriptions,” she said. “You’ll have to make an appointment with him next.”
“But we called him first,” I said. “Do we have to pay him, too?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “You will see me for the therapy and him for the medication.”
At $350 a pop, this was out of the question. So we just flushed that first $350 down the toilet, and started looking for someone quick and easy – and hopefully “in network” to write a prescription.
The search has not been easy.
The night before the first day of school has always been hard for me. As a child, I was often “the new kid,” and wandered through the halls on the first day completely alone, feeling like I was wearing a neon sign that said, PLEASE IGNORE ME. I DON’T BELONG HERE.
As a result, of course, I rarely spoke and was subsequently ignored.
And I never slept well on the night before school. I worried that I would be late. I worried that no one would like me. I worried that I would forget something essential, like a pencil. I worried that I would forget how to walk to school or, sometimes, where to catch the bus.
What amazes me is that, at the ripe old age of 55, I still dread the first day – even when I am not going to school!
This year, I thought it might be better. Formerly, I rarely slept, thinking about Dylan’s ADHD and how to keep him organized and on task. But Dylan is in college now, learning how to keep himself on task.
Unfortunately, this is the first year Shane is walking into school on Day One with a diagnosis of OCD.
So I tossed and turned all night, again. Mostly I worried that the OCD would ruin Shane’s day. But I also wondered if he would have friends in his classes, worried about what to make him for breakfast, worried that my alarm wouldn’t go off, thought about what I would put in his lunch, wondered if he was too old for silly notes in his lunchbox.
As a result, I got almost no sleep – as usual – again this year.
And when I woke up, at least an hour before my alarm went off, I tossed and turned until the alarm finally went off. And then I went into hyperdrive – jumped up, brushed teeth, fed dog, made breakfast for Shane, made lunch, put in a special lunchtime note….
For the first time ever, Bill was home for the first day of school. He was leaving town for a week, but at least he was available that morning. Bill had even – jokingly, I thought – considered riding to school with Shane and me. I had considered letting Bill drive Shane to school, since it was the only opportunity he’d ever had to do so.
But when I woke up, as I raced downstairs, I noticed that Bill was still sound asleep. So I planned to take the dog for a walk in the woods after dropping off Shane at school, and prepared accordingly.
I finished packing Shane’s lunch, prepared a special travel cup of chocolate milk, seat-belted the dog into the car and then went back to get the chocolate milk and lunch for Shane, who had forgotten his lunch after a whole summer without a lunchbox.
Just as we were leaving, Bill appeared.
“Mind if I ride with you guys?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” I answered. I may be a great mom, but I am a terrible wife.
Running on empty, and having done everything to make sure Shane was good-to-go on his first day, I looked at my husband and said, “I’m taking the dog for a walk after I drop him off.”
Then I left the house with Shane and the dog, but without Bill.
There are only two more first-day experiences left – and my guess is, they’ll be sleepless nights and frantic mornings, too. And Bill will go to work, where he belongs, and I won’t feel nearly so guilty for excluding him from this rite of passage.
Shane saw a therapist for a couple of months before it got really rough. At first, Shane seemed totally fine, managing his OCD – and then he started getting flustered and frustrated and really unhappy.
Shane’s OCD was telling him things that didn’t make any sense – as it always had been – but now Shane knew it was OCD. He just didn’t know how to make it stop.
And that meant he had to face the demons.
If you swallow, the OCD would say, the whole world is going to die.
Shane is one of the sweetest, most harmless creatures on the face of the earth. He wouldn’t purposefully hurt anyone.
But here’s the way OCD treatment (called Exposure and Response Prevention) works: In spite of what OCD was telling him – that swallowing would be deadly – Shane had to swallow. He had to, because it was a human reflex action. And he had to, even though he truly believed that it would kill the whole world.
And then he felt guilty, because he was “trying” to murder people.
It was a nightmare. And it was a nightmare that we were compelled to share with the therapist.
“You might want to try medication,” said the therapist – who, as a licensed social worker, could not prescribe medication.
So we have started on the search for a psychiatrist to prescribe medication.
Dylan texted me after his first chorus class.
“I think I’m gonna mess things up and drop chorus.”
“What? Why?” I asked, befuddled. Of all the classes I thought would be a problem for my ADHD child, chorus was not one of them.
The choral director is an accomplished professor. She has two Masters degrees and a Doctoral degree, and her experience is extensive. She is a solo performer, composer, conductor, arranger and vocal group consultant. Her bio includes words like “pedagogue” and “adjudicator” (which I had to look up in the dictionary). She has worked with a slew of famous conductors, but the only name I recognize is Bobby McFerrin (who sang Don’t Worry; Be Happy).
So she is rather particular with what she expects from her choruses. For example, sheets of music need to be printed double-sided, or taped together with double-sided tape. Students must have a pencil at every rehearsal. And – imagine – she expects her students to know how to read music.
Guess who doesn’t know how to read music?
Dylan was in a group like this when he was in sixth grade. His choral director wanted all of her students to read music, so she showed them how they would hold their black binders in front of them, to follow along. Dylan held his black binder the proper way, and never looked at the sheet music. He listened to the song once, heard his part, and memorized it. Then he just sang it perfectly, from memory, for every rehearsal. When the teacher told him to look at his music, he did. But mostly he looked straight ahead, because he didn’t need that music.
Dylan also learned how to play the piano – without lessons. He can play almost anything – without proper technique, and without sheet music. In fact, if you give him sheet music, it just sits there.
Dylan has been in several choral groups. And he spent some time with his voice instructor, practicing reading music. But at the college level, things are a bit different.
And he has to bring a pencil.
I spent the entire weekend, and well into the following week, worrying about him dropping chorus. I didn’t want him to go an entire semester without singing, although he is taking voice lessons on campus as well.
I worried and fretted. I studied all the other choral groups. In fact, at one point, I (literally) accidentally signed up Dylan for a smaller ensemble. Fortunately, he was able to quickly drop it, no harm done.
Bill and I talked about how important it is for him to learn to read music, and knew that he would learn if he stayed in this particular chorus. Plus, Dylan would be in a world-class chorus!
But he could forget his pencil once too often, and fail the class.
After five days, Dylan returned to his chorus for Day Two. It was the last day to drop a class, and he didn’t even want to go. But Bill told Dylan to try it once more, just in case it had been simple, first-day jitters.
So Dylan went to class, one more time, just in case. And after that class, I got another text: “I’m definitely going to stay in this class.”
Huh, I thought. All of my worrying was for nothing – again!
“Why?” I texted back. “What changed your mind?”
“We sound really good,” Dylan said.
So Dylan is now in a world-class chorus, where he will learn to read music. And he can stay in that chorus, too, as long as he remembers his pencil.
After Dylan went to college, Shane had only two scheduled events in his immediate future: a surgery to remove his wisdom teeth, and the beginning of 10th grade.
Needless to say, these were not Shane’s most anticipated events of the year. But he went in to have his wisdom teeth removed without much anxiety, and his OCD seemed to take a backseat to rational thought.
So I thought Shane did really well. In fact, he did DO really well. The surgery went perfectly.
But appearances can be deceiving.
Driving to the surgical office, Shane seemed to be comfortable and talkative. In the car, I asked, “Do you have any questions? Are you concerned about anything?”
“Not really,” he said casually. “I’m going to be asleep.”
We sat together in the waiting room, just chatting. The nurse opened the door and said, “Okay, Shane!” He stood up and looked at me.
And I didn’t get up. Having been through this surgery with Dylan, I knew I wasn’t going into the surgical room with Shane.
But somehow Shane didn’t know that.
Several days after the surgery, Shane told me what happened next.
“I didn’t know you weren’t coming in,” he said. “So I went back and they put those things on my chest, like you see in the movies, to see what my heart was doing. Those little stickers with wires on them?”
It took me a minute to understand. “An EKG?”
“Yeah, and then we sat there for a long time. They kept saying, ‘You have to calm down; you have to calm down. Just relax!’ I felt like I was calm. But they just kept saying I had to calm down for the longest time. Some lady came over and talked to me; I still don’t know what her job was. She just kept asking me questions about my life.”
“So your heart was beating too fast for them to start the operation?”
“I guess so,” Shane said. “And I just had to sit there for a really long time with those things on my chest and them saying I had to calm down.”
Eventually, his heart rate slowed enough that they could start the procedure. And everything went well.
But I learned something in Shane’s retelling of the story. In the past 15 years, I’ve always been amazed at Shane’s calm demeanor. He’s always been a laid-back kind of guy. Outwardly, this doesn’t change.
Apparently, though, Shane has a pretty serious case of anxiety on the inside. Between the OCD and the speedy heart rate, I am learning – the hard way – that Shane could use some calming techniques for his life.
So in addition to encouraging him to learn how to recognize anxiety in therapy, I’m going to see what I can find for him to do at home. If OCD is rooted in anxiety – and everything I’ve read said that it is – and the stress of Dylan’s leaving exacerbated it to the point of near insanity – then maybe reducing stress should be Shane’s number one priority.
And thank goodness: that is something with which I can help.
Dylan is at college.
I want to write one of those blogs about how much I miss him, how empty the house is without him, and how I can hardly stand him being ten hours away and not knowing what he’s doing.
But I am thrilled to say: I can’t write that.
I miss Dylan, but it’s only been a week. In that week, he has not only called me – but he’s Facetimed me, which is something I had never considered before he left. It’s like having him here! He is sitting there in his room, doing stuff, and I am right there with him.
I realize that these talks won’t happen – and haven’t happened – every day. But just the realization that sometimes they can has made me ecstatic.
I love seeing his face. I love hearing his voice. I love seeing where he is, what he’s doing. It’s my favorite thing.
Dylan has already had his first and second days of classes. He’s done whatever he needs to do for his accommodations, although I’m betting big money that he hasn’t given his paperwork to his professors yet. But he did his homework right when he got it – a brilliant idea – and even had some time “off” this weekend (which scares me).
He’s texted and snap-chatted me. He’s spent a lot of time ignoring me, because he’s making friends. Those are the hardest days for me, and the brightest for him. So I try to back off and let him enjoy them.
And he’s spent an inordinate amount of time in his room, so he still has a little time to talk. We even managed to get into an argument one bright, Saturday morning – across all the miles – about whether or not he should audition for an a cappella group.
The interesting end of the argument: Dylan gets to decide. Pestering him one way or another does no good at all, because it is his decision!
And this is how it should have been for years. So I’m not writing that blog about crying my eyes out until the wee hours of the morning. I’m writing a blog to say that I am happy for my son. He’s doing what he wants and needs to do for himself.
Yes, I miss him. But I’m actually, truly, honestly happy for him.
So Dylan is at college. And Shane just got his wisdom teeth removed. And I don’t feel like writing one, single word. I will, soon, I’m sure. But for right now, I just need to do nothing.
