My son Bob began talk therapy at age eight after he knocked over a heavy wrought-iron barstool that ripped the back of my upholstered couch as it fell. Next he went upstairs and slammed the door to his room, putting a hole in the wall. Bob's behavior got worse despite my best parenting efforts. He was a sweet kid, but his moods changed rapidly, resulting in damage and destruction. I didn't know what to do, so I asked one of my mom friends for a referral.
My most recent post asked if a parent and child should see the same psychiatrist. The consensus was a resounding "NO." (Honestly, can't you people make anything easy?) Admittedly, upon giving the situation further thought, I'd rather preserve my flawless appearance with Bob's psychiatrist and let someone else be privy to my hot-messiness. And so the search begins. (Sigh.)
I've been shopping for a new psychiatrist for my chronic severe depression and anxiety, and I think I've found a good one. Female, office nearby, personable, good reputation, and covered by my insurance. There's just one possible snag--she's already seeing my son.
This time of year, I am always reminded of the first half of 2008--the year I admitted Bob to inpatient psychiatric treatment not once, but twice. I suppose it's because this is the same time of year, or because it's the season when Bob experiences more manic-type symptoms. Apparently, it's on Bob's mind, too.
Ongoing Problems Lead to a Second Inpatient Hospitalization My recent posts have described my experiences with Bob and inpatient psychiatric treatment. I'm not sure why I'm revisiting that experience now, other than Bob's currently doing relatively well and I don't think I've previously detailed his hospitalizations here. Reading my own words, I'm amazed at how far we've come--and worried about the future.
If you've read my previous posts about my son, Bob's first inpatient psychiatric hospitalization at the age of 6, you may understand my mixed emotions surrounding his release after only six days. On one hand, I was happy to have my boy home, and to no longer be under the scrutiny of the hospital staff. On the other, I couldn't help but think six days was a very short time to turn Bob into a "normal," functional kindergarten student.
I'd like to thank all of you for the kind words and shared stories regarding last week's posts regarding my son, Bob's first inpatient psychiatric facility admission. I have more to share on that matter, but I'm returning to the present today for the ongoing saga of the 504 Plan.
If you read my previous post detailing Bob's first inpatient admission to a psychiatric facility, you know I felt horrible about the decision, but hopeful Bob would get help. I also thought the hospital staff would see me as a concerned mother who wanted the best for her son. I had no idea what was actually in store for me and my husband.
Last week, we returned to Bob's psychiatrist to discuss the medications he takes for bipolar disorder and ADHD. Over the past year, his medication regimen (which he has taken for over two years) has become less and less effective, even as his doses are increased. I was ready to argue my case for a medication change. Luckily, I didn't have to.
This week, I encountered yet another insurance / psychiatric medication prescription snafu. Bob's old Seroquel prescription had run through its refills and I submitted a new prescription for his bipolar medication from his psychiatrist. Blue Cross Blue Shield refused to pay for it. Why? Because their monthly limit is 102 tablets. Bob's prescription for his psychiatric medication was written for 105. Yes--splitting hairs over Three. Pills.