Armchair Expert

I am not a doctor, or a psychologist. But when you have a sick child like I do, and if you’re an avid consumer of information like I am, journal articles and current research become your best friend. In my experience, it is far better to be over-informed, than to be misinformed. When you’re making life-altering decisions for your child, and his life is literally depends on the treatments, psychiatrists, medications and doctors you choose, it is best to be armed with a knowledge that is at least equal to that of the ones providing services to him. As most parents will attest, I’m sure, when you have a seriously sick child, the illness becomes a living, breathing entity of its own. It is easy to become obsessed with researching causes, finding treatments, examining the whys and hows and what next. In some ways, a parent with a sick child becomes an “armchair expert”. I have had a few treatment providers and legal professionals tell me to let the “experts” make the decisions. But when it comes down to it, if the illnesses are psychiatric in nature, not even the “experts” have a clear-cut path for treatment. Even the most current research is often contradictory, and the nature of mental health, in general is not clearly understood. And this is my child. And his life is in danger. And receiving the wrong treatment can have a consequence of death. And that isn’t an option for my family. As the mother of a child who has bipolar and addiction, I can assure you that I am the primary expert on my child. I’ve known him for his entire life. I have been with him through every accomplishment, every struggle, every success and every bad day since he was born. I have witnessed his illness manifest from “shyness” and introversion and temper tantrums in childhood, to a rapidly spinning cycle of crippling depression, and dangerously impulsive episodes of mania as he neared adulthood. I have lived the depression with him. I am the one who watches him lay in bed, staring at the wall unblinking as though his soul has been stolen, looking at his body, wondering if my son is in there at all. I am the one who hugs him and kisses him, and tries in vain to compensate for his never ending self-doubt and lack of self-worth. I’m the one who coaxes him into the shower, and then to the car for appointments when his body is literally so depressed that standing is difficult and conversation is impossible. I am the one who recognizes when he is cycling into mania. I see it coming every time. I see the change in him, the agitation, the lack of clear thinking, the impending impulsivity. I am the one who calls for help, because a person trapped in the chaos of mania is unable to do that for himself. I am the one who has to keep him safe from unsafe environments and unsafe decision making. I am the one who recognizes first when his medication isn't working, or when it is making him worse and calls the doctor, begging for five minutes of her time. I am the one who the doctor rolls his eyes at when I tell him about serotonin syndrome, or anti-depressant induced psychosis. I am the one who sits in the ER waiting room overnight, hoping to catch five minutes of a doctor's time, and the one who sleeps in the plastic hospital chair next to his bed for four nights to be his advocate during a ten minute medical exam whenever the resident pops in. I am the one who has ushered Tim through five psychiatrists, six counselors, four treatment programs, most of which have been unsuccessful. I am his voice, because when he is ill, he doesn't have one of his own. And so, in many ways, I am the expert. I am the first-hand, front line researcher. I can tell you things about experiencing bipolar that no study can actually measure. I don’t have the medical degree, but I have the experience. So, yes. I will try to trust in the experts, but recognize that I am an expert of a different kind.