In the desk drawer of a very dear Hebrew school principal lies a
safety-capped bottle of dextrostat. My son’s neurologist prescribed it
for him a year ago to help avoid some of the disruptive conduct, often
with language resembling more the Anglo-Saxon tradition than Hebrew,
that occurred after the body’s detoxification system eliminated the
morning’s dose of Adderall. Her skills as an educator far surpass her
skills as a medication dispenser. By the time my son received the
medicine his id had already taken over. Fortunately, over time the need
for supplemental psychostimulants became less pressing. Some twenty of
the original thirty tablets remain the amber prescription vial,
presumably still within their expiration date.

Along the eight or so year adventure of diagnostic and therapeutic
uncertainties we visited practioners of assorted titles and
inclinations, encountered a smattering of heroes along with a few rogues
of serious community repute and no shortage of ignorami and individuals
of abbreviated insight, sometimes counting myself among them. The
experience brings to mind a marvelous chapter in Carol Shields’ The
Stone Diaries, a fiction bestseller a few years back. Daisy, the
heroine, had suffered a major depression in the decade before tricyclic
antidepressants became available. A myriad of mostly well-meaning souls
exchanged opinions as to why their friend had begun to underfunction
along with suggestions for improving her situation. We got much advice
too. It ranged from the nutritional supplements that would ease the
child’s combative nature at one extreme to the thoughtful review of the
medication possibilities at the other.

Along the way, it became apparent that he received his temperament from
me, from the distractibility to the hyperfocus and perhaps some of the
combativeness too. My aggression tends to be verbal with some very
polite harpoons lobbed in the direction of grand rounds speakers, public
officials and rabbis who open the floor to questions from the audience.
As I became more aware of this, the question arose as to whether I
should undergo formal diagnosis as an adult ADD and perhaps avail myself
of treatment. I functioned quite well in my milieu, achieving most of
the trappings of a medical school graduate. Over years I acquired
enough insight not to commit myself to a career of long surgical
procedures that required my undivided attention. Exams could be
prepared for in ten minute blocks. Cramming never helped me so I never
did it. Though unfinished projects abound I look at each as an opus in
progress. Yet I wonder what it might be like to read an entire medical
review article without interruption. Does this justify asking that fine
lady at Hebrew School to return the leftover dextrostat for me to try a
tablet or two, then ask my doctor for a prescription if it looks like
the right way to go? It’s pretty hard to make a case for going in this
direction.

Allowing myself to be diagnosed so that my child might attain the
benefits of correct medical therapy seems a decent justification And I
did, taking a psychologic battery of multiple choice responses that
placed me somewhere under the bell curve of normal respondents. So my
son became the index case instead of me. He had received his paternal
genetic heritage, functioned not so well, and responded to the right
combination of chemicals after quite a number of false starts. He falls
within the realm of ADD. We could then trace the pedigree backwards and
take another look at how well I really function.

After some thought my family concluded that my obsession to detail and
impatience were every bit as destructive to my household as my son’s
id-directed vocabulary was to his class at school. As a regular
prescriber of SSRI’s, I had a good deal of familiarity with what they
can do. With my doctor’s permission, I took a sample pack of Prozac out
of my closet. Four months later I’ve yet to miss a daily dose. My
focus on tasks remains as short as ever, as it should, with all
compensatory mechanisms still intact. But I find some of the
co-morbidity, particularly the obsessionality and my impatience
substantially eased.

I approached my friend the Hebrew school principal recently to retrieve
the leftover dextrostat though with no intention of taking it or
offering any to my son. She had discarded it, not wanting any Class II
agents in her desk drawer even though properly prescribed and labeled.
She’s an amazingly wonderful educator.