Recently I took my two stepdaughters to the doctor for a dosage check on their ADHD medication. (They each take 30 mg. of adderall daily.) Before the physician entered the room, the nurse began entering information into the computer. Height, weight, blood pressure, etc. The girls, ages twelve and nine, gleefully teased each other and fought over the cushioned examination seat. When the pediatrician finally came into the room, he had a lot of questions. What were the behaviors I saw when the girls were off their medication? What behaviors did I see while they were on it? Was it helping?
A long list of criticisms?
I felt a little discomfort as I described my own observations. It puts me in an awkward position, because my descriptions sound like complaints. “Cassidy was getting pink slips from the principal’s office weekly,” I said. “But on the medication, we haven’t seen those behavior problems.” I described her hyperactivity, banging on the walls, stomping on stairs, and her insistence on mercilessly bullying or pestering people for attention. The doctor took copious notes, and Cassidy stared at me blankly. Then I had to describe Sunni’s great lack of focus, her daydreaming, and failure to turn in homework. She looked at the floor as I spoke, ashen. Although it was necessary to honestly describe their behaviors to justify the medication, I found myself leaving the appointment feeling guilty. It seemed like I had just rattled off a long list of criticisms about my stepdaughters. On the drive home, I had the need to reassure them of my love. And I grappled privately with whether the girls should have waited in the lobby during my discussion with the doctor.
“Mommy, what is autistic?”
My son Kyle who is thirteen, knows that he is autistic. However, if you asked him, he would say, “It means I’m very smart.” I remember a time when he first noticed that I was using this term to describe him to doctors or school officials. “Mommy, what is autistic?” he asked. I knew he couldn’t comprehend the actual condition even if I tried to carefully explain it. I hesitated, then said, “You know how you have a very good memory and you’re very talented at math?” He looked at me, perplexed. “Well, that’s what it means. That you’re very smart.” I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he processed what I had just said. An almost imperceptible smile came across his lips and he galloped off to his bedroom.
“It’s a mistake not to tell your son what is going on.”
When one of my other sons was in kindergarten, we thought he might have Tourette syndrome. He had a few unusual motor behaviors that concerned us. After a medical examination, I insisted that he stay in the lobby while I spoke with the doctor. At the end of our discussion, the physician said, “I think it’s a mistake to not tell your son what is going on. He might think something terrible is happening, like he’s going to die.” However, my son’s motor behaviors disappeared and no diagnosis was ever made. So I was glad not to have alarmed him. Still, I understood the doctor’s point.
How much should we say?
For me, it’s an interesting dilemma—how much do we tell our kids about the aspects of their conditions? Specifically, with behavioral disorders or mental challenges, does sharing the details arm them with knowledge, or crush their self-esteem? If we don’t yet have a diagnosis, do we explain our concerns? If our child has a progressive condition, should we let her know?
I’m sure the answer is that our kids have the right to know the truth, to the ability that they can comprehend. It’s their life, and they need to know what they’re up against. But I wonder whether certain descriptions can become self-fulfilling prophecies. If a child is told that he is behaviorally-disordered, will he misbehave in order to fulfill expectations? I am still sorting out the answers, and would appreciate your insight and wisdom, dear readers.
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here.