February was a rough month for Conrad. The winter seemed to really get him down. When I’d be tucking him in he’d tell me that something was bugging him and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Unsure of what to do, I’d say something benign like sometimes we all have good days and bad days, but his sadness persisted. As the month wore on he’d tell me that he felt like someone was punching him all the time. I joked that he should punch them back. But that didn’t make him feel better. Then he told me that at recess he wishes he could just go home and lie in his bed. On the night he told me he wished he could just disappear and he knew all his friends wished the same thing, I got worried.

If a 40-year old were to say these things he’d be given a script for Xanax. A friend mentioned that there was a therapist in town who once helped her in a difficult time with amazing results. I called right away to make an appointment.

When David and I met with her I explained that thing is that Conrad is only depressed when he is at home, and specifically when he is with me. His teachers let me know how nice it is to have him in class. When the kids have to write stories about their lives for Writing Workshop, Conrad shows up in many of them. He’s well-liked, has playdates, eats well, has enough Legos to recreate our house in life-size, so I can’t figure out what is eating at his seven-year-old heart. She agreed to see him the next day.

Then Sunday he came down with a cough. By Monday he was breathing rapidly and coughing a lot so I brought him to the doctor. Much to my surprise he was having a full-on asthma attack—his first—and was diagnosed with having asthma that’s not related to viruses or cold. The next day we went to see a pulmonologist in Morristown and he told me that Conrad’s chest was very tight and that asthma is an insidious disease that can make you feel bad overall. I asked him how long he thought Conrad had been suffering. About a month. The same amount of time Conrad had been so depressed. He told me that it’s not unusual for him to be referred a patient through neurologists if a child is having problems at school or depressed. He explained that asthma is a lot like being in a bad relationship, you don’t realize how crappy you are feeling about yourself until you break up. “So Conrad’s asthma is like a toxic girlfriend and now he’s going out with some nice oral steroids to help him get over her,” I said. Pretty much, he said.  It sounds strange but I was relieved to know that his Plath-like antics had a medical connection.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I would much prefer my kid have a disease with a name and an action plan that can be administered than be lost in depression. Depression scares me. There’s no easy way to help someone and no easy way for that person to help themselves. We’ve had moments when Conrad will turn to me with tears in his eyes and ask: “When Mommy? When am I going to feel happy again? How can it come back? Tell me.” Some mornings he’s so upset he’s practically begging me. I’ve done everything I can. One moment, I’m hugging him and trying to crack jokes to change his mood and in the next I’m resorting to every women’s magazine cognitive therapy trick I’ve learned. Before bed we all reveal our happiest moment of the day. I’ve also tried to help him think about all the things he’s grateful for and I don’t let him deliver a BS answer. Just last night he was crying and said, “I’m grateful for my family and my house but I’m still sad.” “Forget the house and the family, think of something you are really grateful that gets you excited, like your new Bakugan set,” I said. But it didn’t move him, he just told me that  ‘everything is black and gray and purple and he when he’s at school he wants to come home and lie down.’ I kissed him good night feeling powerless.

Then he came downstairs and said when he thought of good things scary things came too. We ended up cuddling in the guest room together which seemed to work because he quickly fell asleep but this morning he woke up and cried for an hour about not wanting to go to school.

Now that I know that his asthma could be affecting his mood, I know the steroids are making him feel things with more intensity I’m able to downgrade my panic to just fear. The doctor said it could take three weeks for him to feel like himself again, but I’m optimistic and hoping it will happen sooner.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 12th, 2010 at 5:47 pm and is filed under Random acts of mothering. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.