A contributing factor to the unique nature of our church is the curious fact that none of our leaders—literally none of them—volunteer or apply for their positions. Leaders at every level are selected through a process in which existing leaders attempt to discern the mind and will of God on the matter through a combination of intellectual and spiritual means. My experience has found this to be an inexact science, but one that works remarkably well a lot of the time. My only quibble with the process is that it tends to select for mostly likeminded people who don’t share my (admittedly unorthodox) view that a vast majority of the world’s meetings are a waste of everybody’s time.
Our stake is probably not unlike yours (or anyone else’s) in its apparent belief that those challenges inherent to mortal life that cannot be solved by convening a special bonus meeting to talk about them can only be solved by convening an unending series of such meetings.
It was in this spirit of hardheartedness and general grumpiness that I walked into yesterday’s 2½-hour session at the church on dealing with mental health issues in our families. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the issue or find it important. I just didn’t think it was something that a big meeting would necessarily help with.
My typical M.O. in this situation would be just not to go (which is arguably no worse than going and complaining about it). But Crystal was on the speaking panel, and I wanted to hear what she had to say. Plus, it was cold and rainy out, and so I went.
Crystal was joined on the panel by another woman—a clinical social worker—and a counselor in the stake presidency with a daughter whose mental health challenges are reminiscent of Lucy’s. All three speakers were quite good and deftly handled a wide range of questions from those who attended.
Midway through I was forced to admit to myself that this probably wasn’t the waste of time I originally believed it would be. And I was reminded for perhaps the 498th time that whenever decision makers at church (again—unpaid people who didn’t ask for their jobs) make choices that annoy me, I ultimately end up feeling foolish at least 75 percent of the time for having allowed myself to become annoyed to begin with. Maybe someday (hopefully before I die) I’ll stop having to relearn this lesson over and over.
Speaking of mental health and inexact science, you may recall that I mentioned near the end of last month’s letter that I had begun taking a daily 16-mg dose of some drug whose name I couldn’t remember for my self-diagnosed ADHD.
I subsequently learned that the doses were actually 18 mg and can now remember without looking at the bottle that the drug is atomoxetine, a generic version of something called Strattera. It differs from methylphenidate (i.e., Ritalin, Conerta, etc.) and Adderall in that it is not a stimulant, which means it is not a controlled substance and has no street value. This makes the procurement process for my meds a lot easier than that of, say, Lucy’s meds.[1]
I went back to the doctor last week and told him I felt like the atomoxetine might be helping. I allowed that part of my improvement may have had to do with transitioning to some different responsibilities at work—things that I’m actually kind of good at (for a change) and that I rather enjoy. I also suggested that if you give me a pill and tell me it’ll help improve my attentiveness, there’s bound to be some placebo effect.
The doctor responded to this by upping my dosage to 40 mg. I found a nearby pharmacy that sells it for less than one-third the nearly $8 per pill that CVS charged me last month.[2] I’m hoping the reduced cost will not dampen its placebo powers.
Drug prices really only matter to me in the first part of the year, before we inevitably hit our annual health insurance deductible. Grace helped us get there earlier than usual a year ago when she broke her ankle in January 2019. She helped get us right back on track this year by requiring an emergency room visit a couple of weeks ago.
It was a little past 5:00 p.m. on Friday, Jan. 10th. I was at the office in Arlington and Crystal was with Sophie at the Maryland Thespian Festival (more on that below).
Grace texted complaining of nausea and sharp pains in her lower right abdomen. Remembering an episode of Gilmore Girls (a series she has watched in its entirety at least 7 times) in which one of the characters develops appendicitis, Grace feared she might have that, and so I called her pediatrician. The office was closed and I got whoever was on call. I conferenced in Grace and had the two of them talk to each other. After hearing Grace describe her symptoms, the doctor said that he couldn’t rule out appendicitis and told me I should take her to the hospital that night. He emphasized that it wasn’t something that should wait until morning.
And so I hopped on my bike at 5:35, pedaled home from the office, changed my clothes as quickly as I could, didn’t eat or shower, jumped in the car with Grace and had her to the Holy Cross Hospital emergency room by 7:00.
We were joined in the E.R. by what appeared to be roughly 17 billion other people. (I’m not sure what the precise population of the earth is, but most of them were at Holy Cross that night.) By 9:00 p.m. Grace still had not been seen by anyone other than the triage nurse at the front door. Around that time, Sophie and Crystal arrived with food for me.
We decided that there wasn’t any reason for all of us to sit around the waiting room, and so it was decided that Sophie and I would go home. Crystal, after all, hadn’t done much that day—arising at 5:00 a.m. to teach her 6:15 seminary class, going directly from there with Sophie to Northwood to pick up the other drama students (and their teacher) and drive everyone up to Baltimore for the thespian festival, spend all day there, drive back, and come home just long enough to make me a sandwich and bring it to the hospital.
In my defense, I offered Crystal the option to go home. But she said she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, and so I went home and to bed. Crystal and Grace finally came home around 4:30 a.m. with no diagnosis other than “abdominal pain.” They ruled out appendicitis and ovarian cysts and suggested Grace visit her pediatrician. The pediatrician subsequently couldn’t say for sure what was causing the pain (medical diagnosis can be an inexact science) but she suspected constipation and prescribed prunes. Grace hates prunes and probably would have preferred an appendectomy. She seems to be doing better now.
As alluded to above, Crystal and Sophie spent all of that Friday and Saturday at the Maryland State Thespian Festival at Towson University (just north of Baltimore) with two of Sophie’s classmates and their drama teacher. The two days included multiple adjudicated performances, highlighted by Sophie’s solo performance of “So Big/So Small” from the musical Dear Evan Hansen.
One of two adjudicators awarded Sophie a perfect score (24 out of 24) and recommended her for the “showcase” event. The other adjudicator apparently heard something s/he didn’t like and gave Sophie only a 16 out of 24. The combined score knocked her down to a mere “Excellent” (as opposed to “Superior”) rating. This was mildly disappointing because only “Superior” performers received special recognition and were afforded the opportunity to spend even more money to participate in the International Thespian Festival (in Indiana) in June. We’ll get over it.
I don’t know what could have accounted for the large disparity in the scores. I didn’t hear the performance, but obviously, as Sophie’s father, I can only assume that it was the less-generous judge who was mistaken.
Sophie is also on the high school diving team, and it’s reminiscent of the judging I see there. High school diving judges (like all other swim meet officials) are just parents who volunteer and receive a modicum of “training” in what to look for. While I was tabulating and entering the scores at last weekend’s meet it was not particularly unusual to see 4s and 7s awarded to the same dive. Attempting to discern the will of God is apparently far from the only inexact science humans rely on in their decision making. But somehow these things tend to work out.
Finally, Crystal, Sophie and I attended a fascinating memorial service for one Jack Mitchell (not a relative) at the nearby Good Shepherd Episcopal Church a couple of Sundays ago. (We would have a shorter trip to our regular worship services if we were Episcopalians…or Lutherans, or Jews, or Catholics, or Buddhists or almost anything other than what we are.) Jack lived in our neighborhood and Sophie has been classmates at times with his daughter Hailey. I met him once or twice when picking up Sophie from birthday parties but never had any idea what an amazing life he had led. You learn the most amazing things about people at funerals. Jack had been instrumental in bringing down big tobacco according to his Washington Post obituary, which also included this gem: “Among his most audacious exploits was a 1980 expedition to the Colombian jungle, where he delivered a $250,000 ransom to a group of leftist guerrillas to free Richard Starr, a Peace Corps volunteer who had been kidnapped three years earlier.” Seriously, go back and read that sentence again! (The whole obituary is actually worth your time.)This guy lived in my neighborhood and our paths crossed. How stupid am I for not getting to know him better?
It was one of those times that simultaneously made me feel good about the human race for having produced such a fine specimen and bad about how little I’ve done with my life.
I’m grateful to still have time to perhaps make something of myself and get to know the people around me a little better.
Love, Tim
[1] Lucy and her meds are flying home from Utah today following a long weekend there with Hannah and JT. The house has felt unsettlingly quiet at times without her and we’re looking forward to having her home again!
[2] Maybe if CVS started selling cigarettes again, they wouldn’t have to gouge their pharmacy customers.
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