needs: Meds- starting new ones.
Confession: she has been prescribed new meds and my beloved filled the script but we haven’t started them, yet.
First up- it’s not life threatening. This is a situation where the Neuro wants to try something and we have lead-in time. A lead-in time that is slipping like sands through the hour glass and I really want to be the Hope Brady of this situation, not the Stefano Dimera.
Every morning I set out her constant companion ‘regular meds’. Those I know. I’ve survived my blind date, 2nd date nerves, fall-out from the first fight, miscommunication, heartfelt rejection and romantic reconciliation with those meds. We are wedded to those meds, and take them for granted until we don’t. We’ve taken them home to the Brady Pub to meet the family. Those meds are bound to us, for better or worse, in good times and Dimera times.
Confession: I am afraid of new meds and the ripples they bring to our life. The writers’ room has drafted in a new special guest star, and I am afraid of the chaos that may ensue. So, I open the med draw. I glare at them. Give them a tap tap- see you tomorrow. And put it off one more day. Queue the thinking close up and breathy voice over: “I’m just not ready”.
Confession: After a few days I tell my beloved I am afraid of the new meds. He is all action, all solving, all take over and fix it and it turns out I am still afraid. But like Beau Brady, he confesses “I’m afraid too fancy face”.
Confession: When my girl asks about the new meds I tell her we will get to it. I feel bad about that.
Confession: If new meds were a train pulling into the station, I was sitting on the platform watching the train go, again, telling myself there would be another one, and another one, and that we had time.
Confession: When I read the review letter it was simple, straight forward. This was a new tablet, for mornings only. It would help her, but we wouldn’t know for a week. She might have some emotional challenges and watch out for a rash. I had heard these things before.
Confession: After 8 years, it still makes me nervous, I still don’t want her to have to take meds, I don’t want this to be her life.
Confession: She might not need this; this is a shot in the medical dark that is the moving target of her brain and we are one study short of discovering this is abuse. (Some of my thoughts are unhelpful)
Confession: She might really need this and the new meds could make the world better, easier, kinder, for her. (Some of my thoughts are helpful)
I laid them out in the sweet little bowls I bought for this. I was going to give them to her and I was going to keep a bit of a list. See how they landed, kept an eye on things. Should be fine? And they all lived happily ever after, until they didn’t and then they did, and then they didn’t and then they did…
means: The snakes and ladders of new meds for us
We have somewhere to keep them.
We have scripts dates diarised.
We have appointments with the specialist for a review.
We are kind to her, my beloved, my dude and me.
We keep the calendar light.
If it’s a stimulant, we plan a mental workload, a physical workload and an off to sleep routine.
We name the day: “that was a tricky one”, “that was a good one”, “that was a better one”.
Our goal is a child who is free to experience life, (all the feelings, thoughts and actions) and explore her potential as much as modern medicine and her family’s support will nurture.
Queue close-up: Beau and Hope and the kids hug long, breath in deep, and we take the next right step, together.
