It feels like so much has changed in such a short time.
“How are you feeling today, Teagan?” Edith asks.
“I’m good. I slept well last night.”
“I’m glad to hear that; the foreign environment and all the changes can make it difficult for some people.”
The first couple of days were the hardest, being alone in a place I didn’t know, shining a spotlight on all my issues. “I know it’s necessary, though. So I can get the space I need to regain control of my independence.”
“This is very true.” She crosses her legs and laces her fingers together. “I wanted to talk to you about some of the diagnostic tests we ran when you first arrived.”
“Okay.” I take a sip of my water, suddenly nervous.
“We’ve had some time to observe you and review your full medical history. I believe you were misdiagnosed as a child.”
“Misdiagnosed how?”
“I don’t believe that you fit the profile for attention deficit,” Edith says.
“But I couldn’t pay attention in school.” I remember feeling lost back then, unable to handle the separation from my dad, afraid one day I’d come home from school and he’d be gone, too, just like Mom had been.
“You were a child grieving the loss of your mother, and you lost her weeks before the school year began. It was a lot of change, more than you could handle. And considering the way things were at home after she passed, it makes sense that you were struggling with the demands of school. On paper it looks like the medication was doing its job, but when we look critically at all the data, I believe the diagnosis is incorrect, which means the Adderall contributed to the worsening anxiety and created the sleep disturbances.”
“What does that mean?” I’ve been on some form of ADHD medication for nearly twenty years, and we switched to Adderall when I started college.
“We’re going to wean you off the Adderall and monitor you closely for side effects while you’re here.”
“What will that look like?” I’ve been sleeping okay over the past week, despite it not being my bed. And the lack of Aaron to snuggle with. That’s one of the things I miss the most.
We review the potential side effects, talk through my fears and concerns, and come up with a plan on how we’re going to wean me off the medication I’ve been dependent on for the past two decades. It’s not a high dose, so Edith believes I’ll be able to wean off the drug in my remaining time here.
We work on reducing my dose during my stay. It isn’t a fun process, and I have good and bad days, but as the drug leaves my system, I slowly start to realize the impact it was having on my body and my brain. That instead of making the anxiety better, the medication heightened it. It also contributed to my sleeping problems, and it made my concentration and memory worse instead of better.
Two weeks into treatment, Van and my dad come to visit. I’ve been able to talk to them daily, but we don’t have access to our cell phones most of the time, apart from an hour in the evening.
My dad pulls me in for a huge hug and then steps back and holds my shoulders, his eyes roaming over my face, taking me in. “You look great. How are you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m good. I’m glad you could come.”
He steps back, and Van moves in. His hug is longer and tighter. “I’m sorry I didn’t see what was happening,” he murmurs.
“It’s okay.” I squeeze him back. “I didn’t see the problem until it was too late either.”
And I truly didn’t.
I take them on a tour of the grounds so we can talk with some privacy.
“How is everything going?” Dad asks. “How is treatment?”
“It’s good. A lot of work, but good.” We take a seat on one of the picnic benches. Fall has settled in, and the leaves have started to create a colorful landscape. I wanted to wait until I saw them before I told them about my new diagnosis. “The doctors did a bunch of tests when I first got here, and they believe I was incorrectly diagnosed with attention deficit disorder.”
Dad’s eyes flare. “Incorrectly diagnosed? What do you mean?”
“I don’t have issues with attention. A general anxiety disorder, yes, but not attention deficit.” I explain what my therapist and my doctor explained to me. How the changes and the loss affected my ability to manage school.
Dad reaches out and covers my hand with his. “Teagan, sweetheart.”
I see his guilt, and I wish I could take it away for him, but I know that he needs time to process this, just like I did. “I don’t blame you, Dad; you were struggling to raise three kids on your own, and you lost your wife. I was six and constantly afraid one day I was going to come home from school and you’d be gone too.”
Van puts his arm around my shoulder. “I remember how upset you’d get if Dad was late coming home from work.”
“I was always worried something was going to happen to him. My therapist says I have abandonment issues. Which makes sense. And I look so much like her, and you used to tell me that all the time.” I give Dad a small smile.
“You do, still. You have her smile and her eyes and her personality.” He squeezes my hand.
I nod. “I have some great memories of Mom, but I have some not-so-great ones too.”
“What do you mean?” His smile falls.
“I remember she used to drink ‘water’ with lemon or cucumber slices out of fancy glasses. And she always napped at the same time of day as me, and she always made us fun dinners, but she never ate with us, saying she was going to wait for you.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I remember that, too,” Van says softly, as if he’s putting it together for the first time and seeing how all the pieces fit.
I turn back to Dad, whose expression is crestfallen. “We don’t blame you for what happened to Mom. And I think being here, I’ve learned a lot about what it must have been like for you. And I’ll never know why she was the way she was, but she loved us with her whole heart, and you, and sometimes I think maybe she didn’t leave enough room in her heart for herself.”
“She was so selfless, just like you. Always doing things for other people. She loved you kids so much. You were her whole world.” His eyes pool with tears, and I feel like I didn’t bring enough tissues for this conversation.
“I know how much you loved her, Dad. You were always taking care of her, giving her whatever she wanted. I remember you telling her she was beautiful and she didn’t need to change a thing.” Tears slide down my cheeks, and I pull a tissue from my pocket. I’ve shed my fair share of them since I started down this path to healing.
Dad covers his mouth with his hand, fighting with his own emotions. “I didn’t want her to have the surgery. I tried to talk her out of it.”
“I didn’t know that,” Van says. He’s been quiet so far, observing.
“I loved her so much, maybe to a fault. I wanted her to be happy, but sometimes she struggled with that. When she suggested the surgery, I told her it wasn’t necessary and that I loved her exactly as she was, but she told me it would make her feel better about herself. She’d been through bouts of postpartum, and I’d hoped it would give her something to feel positive about. And then we lost her.”