It was during bed rest with my 5th child that I developed a Pavlovian reaction to pill-taking. My round-the-clock medication kept the contractions at bay, but also turned me into a barge-sized space cadet, bloated and incapable of remembering which pills to take. During my previous bed rest, my husband made me a chart on a whiteboard and set it by my sofa so I could take my medication appropriately in between stuffing my face with York peppermint patties. Five years later, with the advent of the iPhone, he set a variety of alarms on my phone, all designated to chime and tell me which pill I should swallow and when.
Inevitably, the alarms were more for him, as the medicine made me sleep so heavily I rarely heard the midnight chimes and he had to rustle around, find my pill, and shove it down my throat. It was a few months later, after delivering a healthy baby girl, that I was in Target and heard someone’s phone chime with a familiar alarm. I whispered to my husband, “I have the sudden urge to take a pill…”
My gestating days are over but my pill swallowing ways have not slowed. Now it’s the medications and herbal supplements to keep me “young and vigorous” as middle age wraps its arms around my middle and tries to drag me down. My memory has somewhat improved, enough that I can keep up with my own pill schedule, and I dutifully stop my day to chug some water and fling my head back to get the appropriate number of medicines down my gullet. My husband always praises my self-discipline and ability to remember my distinct pill schedule. I suspect he is relieved not to bear that particular burden anymore.
I tell you all of this so you’ll keep it in mind when I tell you the next thing:
I accidentally swallowed my son’s pain killer.
He was laid up on our couch, recovering from some teenage procedure (I can’t remember which one) and I was having “a bit of a day.” I remember that I was in the van a lot, whipping around town, running a myriad of errands and walking fast. Texts were zinging on my phone and my list was 80 pages long. My brain spun wildly and I was trying to get home in time to deliver my son’s medication before he felt any twinge of pain. I hit the door and ran straight to fill up my water bottle. Three children attacked me with questions that I tried to field as I wrestled my son’s pill bottle open and counted out the proper dosage. Another question winged my way (no doubt something of the “what’s for dinner?” variety) and I stood up straight to think about my answer. As I thought, I held my water bottle in one hand and my son’s pill in the other.
And then I quit thinking and did what came naturally: I swallowed the pill.
It was all the way down before I squeaked in surprise and said, “Oh no! That wasn’t my medicine!”
From the couch, I heard a cackle followed by a “Moooooo-oooooom!”
I yelled out to my husband, “Babe? I just took the wrong pill.”
And then I remembered the pain-killing, prescription-strength, night-night kind of pill it was.
“And also? I may need you to take over dinner and bedtime duty tonight…”
There was nothing to do but let it happen. I took out another pill to give to my son – who was still laughing – and went to put on my pj’s. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, I was slithered down in my bed, barely awake, accidentally drugged by my own self-discipline.
If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve done it one more time. I took my husband’s vitamins without thinking. My prostate will be healthy forever, thank you very much.
2 Things You Should Know:
- This story happened over a year ago. I’ve only just now worked up the nerve to tell you. My kids still tease me about this and every time they get a new prescription, they admonish me to “Keep your hands off, Mom.”
- I still hear that old iPhone alarm sometimes and feel thirsty, like I ought to swallow something. Perhaps my kids can use that to their advantage one day when I get old and forgetful and they want Mama to take her pills. They’ll have to dig an iPhone 4 out of some museum and get it to play “chimes.” Those bells are the boss of me.