Choking Hazards

As a pediatrician who discusses a myriad of safety concerns with parents throughout each day, I consider myself a self-appointed pseudo-expert on choking hazards. Honestly, I discuss it so many times during the day that even I want to roll my eyes at the monotony. However, the fear of a missed opportunity ending in a childhood death, motivates me to push through my talk over and over and over. Apparently when you discuss the same topics ad nauseum at work, there is some spillover at home. Once while at a restaurant, my youngest child wanted the grapes that came with his meal. I told him he needed to wait until I cut them into small pieces, because they are a choking hazard. Upping his game 40 decibels, he protested loudly “I want choking hazards.” His sister responded “It’s all fun and games, until mommy is doing the Heimlich on you.” We got some interesting looks from surrounding diners. We are used to it.

But the one thing I had not given much thought to was choking hazards in adults. That is until recently. A little over a year ago, we were having a particularly frantic morning. You know the type I am talking about. The type of morning that makes you feel as if you are herding psychotic, oppositional cats while blind-folded in a car wash? Anyway, after asking one child or another to put his shoes on for the fifth time, I turned to my oldest child, my daughter, who was complaining about not feeling well. She said she did not want to go to school. Having already determined that she was going to school no matter what, with obvious exception made for significant bleeding or other medical trauma, I turned to her and said “you need to get in the car, you’re going to school.” The “missy” was implied.

While that may have been what I said, what I was thinking was “When I was your age, I had cancer. So you’re not that sick. Now get in the car.”

Although I did not say it out loud, I managed to say some other regrettable things between the time it took us to get to the car and to drive to school, which is mercifully only seven minutes from home. I won’t digress too much here, but rest assured I will share it in its full, embarrassing glory in my book.

Despite the fact that I had stopped just short of saying those words, I could not help but feel that I had put that energy out there. It almost did not matter that I never said them, because I put that thought out into the universe in that way that invites the universe to punch you, full force, in the face. It would be several more months before I would understand why she did not feel well that day. And it would be more than a year before I would fully understand all of the reasons that made her feel sick that day….and many days thereafter. Sadly, I am embarrassed to admit that it would take a non-medical person to highlight the severity for me. Although I am no stranger to humility, I have spent the last year choking on those words that never quite escaped my mouth.

This past year has been quite the learning experience, in that euphemistic way in which a particularly brutal, painful experience accelerates personal growth that you didn’t really feel warranted the degree of turmoil associated with the lesson. Then again, I can be a slow learner. One of the most important lessons was really more of a “reminder” than it was a de novo lesson. My much needed memory-jog pertained to comparison and judgment. The reason I deem it a “reminder,” is the fact that on paper I think most of us grasp this concept. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ ‘Comparison is the thief of joy.’ Feel free to insert additional, illustrative cliches.

But in the moment, we may forget. And by “we,” I mean “I.” The thing that I failed to recognize, as I was hurriedly rushing my kids out the door, was that everybody’s journey is different. Yes, the irony of the fact that I’m editing a book about my own journey is not lost on me. But it took witnessing my daughter’s journey to remind me that we all fight battles, whether they are obvious or hidden, abrupt or insidious.  No one can assume that their journey is any more difficult than that of another, nor can anybody tell a person how to traverse his or her individual path. Truthfully, it brings tears to my eyes to think that I was so quick to assume that just because my daughter did not have cancer, that she would sail so easily through the choppy waters of middle school. Let’s be honest. Does anyone really sail through middle school anyway? Did I mention I was an overweight nerd with permed bangs?

I felt emotional as I drove her to her first day of sixth grade, mostly because I hate that she is growing up so fast. In the recent words of my 4 year old, “Mommy is hate a bad word?” Yes. Yes it is. It is also a completely accurate description, as I would definitely opt to keep my baby girl small for at least a few more years. But as I neared school, I became aware of another emotion….a twinge of envy. I thought back to my first day of sixth grade, which I missed entirely. I had my first biopsy that day, and although I returned to school that week, I would be out for much of the next month having two surgeries. So I felt simultaneously grateful and jealous that my daughter was attending her first day of sixth grade. She looked beautiful….happy….and had the notable absence of permed bangs. What could possibly go wrong? PSA-This is nearly always a terrible question to pose to the universe. Sadly her absences over the year would partially eclipse the joy of seeing her attend her first day.

For likely obvious reasons, I will not elaborate on my daughter’s health or path. It is her own personal story, to be held close to her heart or shared, should she ever choose to, in a manner she sees appropriate. But I will share that she is doing so much better and is back to school full time. My heart aches to think of her pain but melts when I see her smile, hear her laugh, or see the most recent funny meme she has texted me. And while the days of secretly regarding her as my mini-me are gone, they are replaced with endless opportunities in which to be proud of the truly amazing person…gulp…woman she is becoming. The words, upon which I choked these last months, have been replaced with a different type of lump in my throat.