The name Marlowe means “from the deep water,” and he was born at a time in our lives when we really felt as though we were the ones coming up out of the deep end of the pool. A year earlier, we had lost our daughter in our sixth month of pregnancy. We knew we were going to lose her. Anencephaly has no cure, no treatment, but that didn’t make the loss any easier for any of us. When Marlowe’s birth turned into a difficult one, we were sure we were going to lose him, too. He had shoulder dystocia, and his lungs compressed during the birth process. He was born completely blue, and his first Apgar score was a one. The midwife worked and worked to resuscitate him, and we waited in abject terror until we heard that first cry.
From that first cry forward, Marlowe was special. He walked early. He talked late. He could unlock any lock in the house at the age of eighteen months. By two, he could put together any manner of Lego or K-Nex. His dexterity was phenomenal for his age, and the mischief that smiled out of his shining eyes gave us all a glimpse of both the positives and the negatives we would see from him in the future. He could charm old ladies in the supermarket line into buying him sweets simply by smiling at them, and he could drive his older brothers mad by trying to emulate their motions and words.
As Marlowe grew, the comparisons with Huck Finn began. He resisted the civilizing force of public education, preferring instead to spend his time on the creek bed. He could catch a crawdad or a newt, make a detailed study of it and release it back without harm. He was bright and engaged as long as learning didn’t require him to sit still. His academic trouble began in kindergarten. Marlowe was placed into a kindergarten class with a veteran teacher (thirty years of educating under her belt) who was well-known for getting the children to read books before they left her class. Her ability to teach skills was famous. However, she didn’t like kids. Really. And she had difficulty with adventurous little boys who could not sit still for prolonged spans of time. So, in a class of twenty-seven other kindergarteners, Marlowe was frequently one of many boys who lost recess as punishment for inability to conform to her requirements. He came out of the class knowing how to read, as promised, but he came out of it with a decided distaste for schooling.
From that first cry forward, Marlowe was special. He walked early. He talked late. He could unlock any lock in the house at the age of eighteen months. By two, he could put together any manner of Lego or K-Nex. His dexterity was phenomenal for his age, and the mischief that smiled out of his shining eyes gave us all a glimpse of both the positives and the negatives we would see from him in the future. He could charm old ladies in the supermarket line into buying him sweets simply by smiling at them, and he could drive his older brothers mad by trying to emulate their motions and words.
As Marlowe grew, the comparisons with Huck Finn began. He resisted the civilizing force of public education, preferring instead to spend his time on the creek bed. He could catch a crawdad or a newt, make a detailed study of it and release it back without harm. He was bright and engaged as long as learning didn’t require him to sit still. His academic trouble began in kindergarten. Marlowe was placed into a kindergarten class with a veteran teacher (thirty years of educating under her belt) who was well-known for getting the children to read books before they left her class. Her ability to teach skills was famous. However, she didn’t like kids. Really. And she had difficulty with adventurous little boys who could not sit still for prolonged spans of time. So, in a class of twenty-seven other kindergarteners, Marlowe was frequently one of many boys who lost recess as punishment for inability to conform to her requirements. He came out of the class knowing how to read, as promised, but he came out of it with a decided distaste for schooling.
So, the same story progressed in waves of positives and negatives, year after year, with Marlowe and school. Rather disheartening for two teachers to have a child who dislikes school, but it happens. By Marlowe’s third grade year (after a wonderful first grade teacher and a totally inept second grade teacher), we were beginning to see academic deficiencies that worried us. Marlowe had always struggled with the constraints of school, but he had never had trouble making the academic connections before. All of a sudden, his Bs dropped to Cs and Ds. He did not seem to grasp the concept of telling time, and the concept of times tables sent him into a tailspin. His second grade teacher insisted that we should have him tested for special education services because he rebelled when she moved him to the back of the classroom where he was largely ignored. It was the first time anyone had mentioned the need for medicating Marlowe. Had the suggestion been made by someone I respected, I probably would have considered it. As it was, I completely packed it away in the round file in my head.
And then the same suggestion was made again by his third grade teachers, both of whom I did respect and both of whom had his best interests in mind. They were worried about his impulse control, and they were worried about his ability to maintain focus long enough for the SOL tests to be a true reflection of his knowledge instead of a reflection of wanting to be done so he could finally move around. This was a valid concern, as much as I hated to admit it.
So, the dialogue began. My husband and I are not without bias where medication is concerned. We believe in hard work, self-sacrifice, balance, and the power of the natural world. That’s simply the way we are. And we only use medication, any medication, as a last resort. But we also recognize the importance of being able to fulfill one’s place in the world at large. That duty was what made us consider medicating Marlowe.
And then the same suggestion was made again by his third grade teachers, both of whom I did respect and both of whom had his best interests in mind. They were worried about his impulse control, and they were worried about his ability to maintain focus long enough for the SOL tests to be a true reflection of his knowledge instead of a reflection of wanting to be done so he could finally move around. This was a valid concern, as much as I hated to admit it.
So, the dialogue began. My husband and I are not without bias where medication is concerned. We believe in hard work, self-sacrifice, balance, and the power of the natural world. That’s simply the way we are. And we only use medication, any medication, as a last resort. But we also recognize the importance of being able to fulfill one’s place in the world at large. That duty was what made us consider medicating Marlowe.
We began by seeking a counselor for a diagnosis. We talked to friends and colleagues and made a decision on a counselor. Marlowe attended sessions every week for several months before the counselor suggested we consult with a doctor. He gave us a referral, and we set up an appointment. The day of the appointment, Chris met me in Lewisburg after school. The children (all five children) had been in the car for forty-five minutes after spending a day at school, so they were slightly restless. Then, when we got to the office, we were told that the doctor was running an hour behind schedule. An hour? How on earth does a person get an hour behind schedule? Isn’t that the point of appointments? So that everyone can stay on schedule? We were not pleased. After an hour and ten minutes, Marlowe’s name was called, and I went into the office with him. The doctor watched him in the office for a total of five minutes before proclaiming that there were two different medications she wanted to “try” with him. She began to pull out her prescription pad when I stopped her.
“May I see the report from his referring counselor, please?” I asked.
She shook her head and told me that she hadn’t received it yet. “I’m sure it will be coming soon, though,” she said.
“What about physical tests? Blood tests? Aren’t those supposed to be done before prescribing any of these medications?” I asked.
She sighed as she wrote vigorously on Marlowe’s chart. “Look. If you don’t want to put him on medicine, why are you here?” she asked. “He obviously needs something to help him focus. Don’t you want to help him succeed?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do,” and I got up, took my son by the hand, and walked out of her office. My husband and I gathered our children, and we left the building, never to return.
I know that the doctor we saw is not representative of every physician out there diagnosing children’s behavioral disorders; but she came highly recommended, and her office was packed with children and parents. More importantly in my mind, I believe we are given small signs along the way in life to let us know whether the path we’re on is the right one for us. Visiting that office was my sign that medication was not the right path for my son. So we have not considered it since.
Have things gotten easier? At school? Certainly not. Marlowe struggles at school, and his education requires constant maintenance on our parts. We cannot let down our guard at all where Marlowe’s school is concerned. The one day I do not sign his assignment book will be the day where there’s a note I need to see in there. That’s just the way it is, as I’ve learned through experience.
He has a good teacher this year, and her efforts at keeping us involved have gone a long way toward easing some of Marlowe’s difficulties. But there are still daunting hurdles. Last week, he realized that if he went upstairs at school after getting off of the bus instead of going directly to tutoring, he could miss ten minutes of the remediation he hates. Skipping remediation may seem a little thing, but it is something that could have dramatic consequences for him because of the promotion requirements of the school. It is a hurdle we still have to leap.
And, of course, the SOL tests for this year loom over us like an ominous, black cloud.
“May I see the report from his referring counselor, please?” I asked.
She shook her head and told me that she hadn’t received it yet. “I’m sure it will be coming soon, though,” she said.
“What about physical tests? Blood tests? Aren’t those supposed to be done before prescribing any of these medications?” I asked.
She sighed as she wrote vigorously on Marlowe’s chart. “Look. If you don’t want to put him on medicine, why are you here?” she asked. “He obviously needs something to help him focus. Don’t you want to help him succeed?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do,” and I got up, took my son by the hand, and walked out of her office. My husband and I gathered our children, and we left the building, never to return.
I know that the doctor we saw is not representative of every physician out there diagnosing children’s behavioral disorders; but she came highly recommended, and her office was packed with children and parents. More importantly in my mind, I believe we are given small signs along the way in life to let us know whether the path we’re on is the right one for us. Visiting that office was my sign that medication was not the right path for my son. So we have not considered it since.
Have things gotten easier? At school? Certainly not. Marlowe struggles at school, and his education requires constant maintenance on our parts. We cannot let down our guard at all where Marlowe’s school is concerned. The one day I do not sign his assignment book will be the day where there’s a note I need to see in there. That’s just the way it is, as I’ve learned through experience.
He has a good teacher this year, and her efforts at keeping us involved have gone a long way toward easing some of Marlowe’s difficulties. But there are still daunting hurdles. Last week, he realized that if he went upstairs at school after getting off of the bus instead of going directly to tutoring, he could miss ten minutes of the remediation he hates. Skipping remediation may seem a little thing, but it is something that could have dramatic consequences for him because of the promotion requirements of the school. It is a hurdle we still have to leap.
And, of course, the SOL tests for this year loom over us like an ominous, black cloud.