So feeling very brave and virtuous and mature that I was seeking what was best for my son despite my own hesitations, I made an appointment with this neurologist at our local health clinic. I had come feeling ready, steady, and proud of myself that I was going to accept the prescription for Ritalin and the diagnosis of ADHD with equilibrium and equanimity. But within 30 seconds, this sharp-mouthed doctor had shaken my composure.

Hesitantly, I voiced some of my concerns. As I spoke, Chezky wandered the room, fiddled with the venetian blinds, climbed the radiator, jumped off, and jiggled the locked door of the storage closet.

“See,” I gestured, “he’s clearly ADHD, and” — I took a deep breath, gaining some of my confidence back — “I think we’re ready to try Ritalin.”

The doctor looked me straight in the eye and said, “I would never give a child like this Ritalin, he could commit suicide!”

My world tilted, my brain refused to compute, my confidence imploded.

“What? Chezky is a happy kid. He’s—”

She cut me off. “You need more help. Serious help,” she said ominously. “Help that’s not within the scope of this visit.”

I stumbled out to the bright sunshine feeling like I’d just been blasted to some alternative planet. On what could she possibly be basing such dire predictions? How had she jumped from the average antsy boy to—? He was five!

When my husband came home and heard the entire debacle accompanied by my sobbing, he was livid. “What an inexperienced… unprofessional… idiotic….”

Yet while I appreciated his support, there was an echo that was gaining traction in my brain. No, I didn’t believe the suicide hysteria. But, yes, we needed more serious help.

A local askan suggested play therapy. Sounded innocuous enough. This time we decided to pay privately. Go for the top. Get proper guidance. Dr. Linda had a slew of initials including a PhD. She listed carefully and tsked tsked when I described the neurologist’s take.

“Why would anyone consider drugging a child?” Her tone twisted a simple medical prescription to seamy images of syringes and addiction. “Chezky is a normal, bright, active child. He just needs support and understanding.”

While her outlook was much more upbeat, I still couldn’t help thinking that most bright normal children did not have full-blown meltdowns and run away from home when it was time to cut their fingernails.

But what did I know? Linda at least had a plan of action. We started sessions, which meant I was renting a car once a week, driving to Tel Aviv, then trying to find parking (I need therapy for that series of nightmares alone), and then spending an hour with Chezky, engaging him in play.

Linda would sit to the side, saying little as Chezky and I played with puppets, trains, blocks. Umm, doctorate and all, could she tell me why I had to be in her office to do this? My couch at home was more comfortable.

Finally, at the end of two months, Linda called in my husband and me for a conference. “As I’ve said, Chezky is a bright and normal boy.” Her tone was slightly condescending, aimed at convincing us poor ignorant parents of her vast superior experience. “However, you and your older children have no idea how to relate to him. As the oldest male child, your expectations are not realistic, your approach to him is stifling his nature, and he needs to act out to find outlets for his normal boyish frustrations. I’m strongly recommending family therapy.”

I was young. I was inexperienced. In retrospect I see I lacked the confidence and strength to disagree with her assessment, although I have a degree in education myself. My husband and girls accepted and tried to accommodate Chezky constantly. But despite all our efforts, daily life with Chezky was still tumultuous.

So I capitulated to her insistence. We added weekly family therapy to our weekly play therapy dates, and life just became more hectic. Which did nothing to help Chezky.

After two years (Two years! what was I thinking?), my husband finally and firmly told Linda that we needed to take some time off to reassess and regroup. She retaliated by telling us we were in denial about our own limitations, and we should consider marital therapy. Both of us emerged completely scarred from the therapy process.

But we couldn’t stop trying. We went running after alternative medicine with drops and pills. Then a naturalist approach, which included vitamins and massages. At one point we had Chezky on an extremely restrictive diet, where there were only ten foods he was allowed to eat. That was a disaster of epic proportions, for Chezky and for the rest of us, trying to guard our food so Chezky wouldn’t suddenly stuff it into his mouth.

By the time Chezky was starting third grade we’d spent more than a mortgage trying to help our son, and we were still running ourselves ragged in circles… going nowhere.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 839)