Tiny red boots in a tube.
My nightly routine of taking a low dose of anti-anxiety/depression medication always ends with hope.
Hope that these little pills which feel a little magic will sooth my mind and fortify my spirit.
The 2x and 3x daily routine of my husband and I pushing drugs on Tutu. Heavy duty anti-seizure meds that do as much good as harm.
Valproic Acid. Keppra. Ativan.
Soon, we’ll be starting to give her cannabis to see if that helps curb the seizures, and a big part of me is hopeful that we’ll be one of those families in a video that goes viral talking about how Tutu is an entirely different girl now – one who can walk again and who regained some of the use of her hands.
See? Hope – it’s nearly a religion at our house these days.
Friendly neighbourhood drug taking, drug dealing, soon drug smuggling (legally) mom.
Meds help me stay out of the cracks my brain falls into when I forget to take them. I didn’t need them BR (before Rett).
Will they become like oxygen, something I can’t live without soon? Hope my doctor gets that referral in soon; all my follow-up and muscle-in is reserved for Tutu’s needs. I need to make sure I don’t run out for that.
Drugs are at once my aid and my crutch, with them I am armed against the monster named Rett.
And I wonder: will the day come when I have shaped my brain and my nervous system in all the ways that are needed to stop seeing monsters.