Bitter Pills

I wait for the prescription to be thrust out of the sliding tray at the drive-thru. I look back at Oliver. Quiet, wordless in his car seat. He stares out the window. I wonder if this will be the one.

The tray explodes forward towards the van door. “Date of birth” comes abruptly from the speaker. “12/23/08” I say. I throw down my Visa. It clanks as it hits the pink plastic clip board. Another $50. Another try at slaying the seizure monster.

I accept the reality of another bitter pill that Oliver has to swallow.

This is the 12th Anti-Epilepsy Drug we have tried. It is called Banzel.

I just.can't.do.it.anymore.

So, this time I am relinquishing #12's success to God.

All the fretting in my mind whether this will be the drug. The restlessness in my soul.

You want to know the statistical chances of success for #12?

5%

See why that 50/50 miracle half thing with the brain surgery was so promising?  Sigh...

~

Once home, I confess to God that my soul is weary. I confess how much hope I put in a pill, a surgeon's skill, a scientific breakthrough. I tell Him all the places I keep looking instead of looking to Him. Somehow, it is easier to be let down by a pill than to feel let down by Him.
After that confession, in that raw brokenness, I ask Him for help.

And my mind begins to be renewed.

I think of the researchers in white lab coats that made this drug (#12) happen.

And then...

I think of the worker who coated the pills with its salmon pink shell. I imagine her as she shifts her hair net and stretches her tired legs.

Then my mind wanders to...

Our pharmacist that counts out the pills, puts them in a bottle, checks for interactions and knows us by name.

And...

The insurance card in my worn green wallet that allows us to have all these expensive drugs.

And...

All the people participating in clinical trials. Suffering for years, all of them desperate for relief from the seizure monster.

By this point I am at the pill cutter.

I go there twice a day. Seven medications I mix, crush, swirl, and measure. Syringes lie on the drying rack beside the kitchen sink. Powdery residue coats the shiny granite. Signs of a life with a sick child.

As I steady that tiny pill, concentrating to cut it into 4ths, I realize I had never marveled at the process that brought all these drugs into my kitchen. Into my hands, into Oliver's body. Dozens of times and it never crossed my mind.

As I gingerly put the fourth of a pill (along with three other whole pills) in the crusher I realize that I have felt sorry for myself from drugs #1-11. Every time, deep down angry that the preceding one didn't work. Wondering if things will ever be “normal” again. Wondering if we could afford all these medications for years on end. Fretting. Anxious. Undone. Messy.

But that gets so old.
The pity party.
The bent soul.
The frayed mind.

And it doesn't change anything for Oliver's seizures, it just makes me sad, or mad, or confused, or bitter. Oh, how I struggle with bitterness. This is a bitter pill for me too.

And you know this new version of gratitude, contemplative thanksgiving, of lingering over the impossibility of it all. It does change things, because...

Somehow, in God's mercy, on try #12...

My undone, bitter, ungrateful heart is changing; is finally beginning to heal.


Colossians 3:16
Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.