A Tough Pill to Swallow

Have you ever been charged with the task of getting a child to swallow a pill? From my personal experience it is all but impossible. At face value this seemingly natural and innate skill is anything but, and probably explains why most children’s medications are in liquid form. Such was the case, at least, in the Tippett household. Asked to swallow a pill and suddenly we had enough hacking, dry heaving and flat out drama to fill a Hollywood movie script.

     Despite these cinematic-worthy performances, Londyn possessed a special talent for swallowing anything else she could get her little hands on with ease. Starting as early as three years old she would accidentally swallow bobby pins, Poly Pocket accessories and even on occasion dog food. Then one Christmas it was the magnet charm that came with one of my gifts. In kindergarten it was a thumbtack and maybe even the tip of a pencil?

    The pinnacle moment however came not long after Londyn had finally mastered walking. Having brought her back to the office from daycare to wrap up after a long day of work, I left her to toddle around the various desks in our space. While counting out the cash drawer, my employee’s announcement that she was a penny short was simultaneously met with a horrible hacking sound that carried across the room. The realization of the moment hit me like a truck. Immediately swooping Londyn up, I threw her in the car and raced to the local hospital. Thirty minutes and a quick X-ray later confirmed our biggest fears. Lodged in the middle of her esophagus in all its perfect circular glory was the image of our missing penny.

       I have lost count how many times my family has shared that story. It is one of our favorites and, eventually, even made us laugh. And there have been many others like these, stories of nearly broken bones, or late night visits to the hospital for recurring bouts of RSV or the ever elusive strep (four years in a row). Things that we would playfully blame for all the gray hairs because ultimately, at the end of the day, we were grateful our family was healthy and whole.

      After the conclusive X-ray, Londyn and I were eventually transported to Childrens Hospital. A long night ensued which eventually resulted in the successful removal of the coin, a trophy I still have to this day preserved in a baggie (along with a newspaper clipping of Steve Tyler from Aerosmith who it turns out shared a similar experience) with the idea that one day she might share this crazy adventure with her own children. It never once occurred to me that all these keepsakes, no matter how odd or seemingly insignificant would ever go unclaimed. These were to be Londyn’s. Her story to tell to the next generation whether it be hers or her nieces and nephews. That she won’t be here to recount these moments is painful.         

     Regardless, even though she may no longer be here in physical form, I’m still her mom. I will continue to tell her stories. She will remain an integral part of our family. And we will laugh ..and cry..and remember. But I will miss her corrections to my telling of the story, her infectious laugh as I get the timeline wrong and her rolling eyes when she thinks I’ve added too much drama. It’s the loss of moments like these much more so than the possessions themselves that I will grieve over the most and that will forever become my own tough pill to swallow.