This Is the Dime That Stopped My Heart

This is the dime.

The dime I saw on the garage floor as I passed by with a trash bag in one hand and a baby on my other hip. The dime I did not stop to pick up even though I made a mental note to do it on my way back inside. And this is the dime my almost-3-year-old saw on the garage floor when she opened the door to see where I’d gone.

The dime that was enough of a distraction from the epic LEGO tower she’d been happily focused on building 60 seconds before I walked out the door. The dime she picked up before calling from the garage door to me at the edge of the driveway, “Look, mama! Money!”

This is the dime that made me run at gazelle speed back to where she stood. That was nowhere to be found when I got there. That made me shriek, “Where’s the money? Where’d you put the money?”

And this is the dime that made my toddler slowly open her mouth and point inside.

The Dime That Stopped My Heart

That made me float out of my body and see the scene from up above.

That turned me into an oddly calm version of myself I’ve never met before.

That had me calling the doctor’s office at 4:00 in the afternoon.

That the nurse said would pass and everything would be okay.

Relief, but then…

But this is also the dime that made my toddler say, “I’m sleepy” – this from a girl who has never and would never admit to such a thing. That made drool run down her chin. That hurt her throat, she said. That had me calling the doctor’s office for the second time in 15 minutes.

And this is the dime that loaded us all – a mom, a toddler, a second-grader, and a baby – in the car during rush hour traffic to go to the hospital.

Because

This is the dime that was stuck.

The dime that they X-rayed. That they said wouldn’t pass on its own. That we had assumed would pass, so we would have sent her to sleep that night like normal – but they said the dime could have shifted and blocked her airway during her sleep.

This is the dime they said would require anesthesia to remove. That would put my child under. My baby.

The dime that made my eyes spill over. That made streaks down my face. That crushed my chest with guilt.

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And This Is the Dime That Set My Brain on Repeat

My brain on repeat, replaying that scene over and over and over again. The dime I didn’t pick up. The dime I walked right by because I was trying to check off a meaningless task in the to-do list for my day.

This is the dime lodged in my baby’s throat as they wheeled her away to the operating room. The dime that made her reach for me, her face crumpling as the strangers in blue clothes took her away from her mama and her daddy and her sisters. That kept me from going to her when she was scared and alone.

And this is the dime that made us wait.

Photo by Erich Ferdinand

And Wait. And Wait.

The dime that made us look around the waiting room at the children’s hospital. That opened our eyes to the pain and the fear of our fellow parents. That made us grateful for our babies’ health.

And this?

This is the dime that was in the surgeon’s hand as he walked toward us in the waiting room. That he held up to our eyes. That made him say, “Everything’s fine.”

The dime that let me breathe again. The dime in my hand as I walked into the recovery room to see her tiny body in a blue hospital gown, swallowed up by a huge hospital bed. And this is also the dime that gave my child three popsicles for dinner.

And as it turns out, this is the dime that’s worth $25,000. That’s still worth $5,000 even after insurance. High-quality insurance.

The dime that’s on a payment plan until 2018.

My brave girl

This Is the Dime I Keep in a Kitchen Cupboard

On a high shelf. The dime that reminds me to be vigilant but also to forgive myself when I fall short of perfection as a mother, which is every damn day. That says no to the crushing mama guilt.

And this is the dime that I will keep for the next 15 years until my child goes to college. The dime I will keep as she goes on dates and finds her footing in the world. The dime I will keep even after she gets married. The dime I will hang onto for all those years. All those years until she comes home with her own perfect baby.

This is the dime I will give my child when I come to meet my new grandbaby. And this is the story I will tell her.

I just haven’t decided yet if she’ll get a copy of the hospital bill, too.

Update: I first shared this story on my Facebook page earlier this year when everything happened. My daughter recovered quickly, and all is well. But I’m sharing this story again for two reasons: to remind myself of how quickly your world can turn upside down, and to encourage you to trust your instincts when it comes to the safety of your little ones. If I hadn’t trusted my instincts…I don’t even want to think about it. Listen to your gut, mama.

Photo by Donnie Ray Jones

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Your Turn

Has your child ever swallowed a coin? Please share your story in a comment below.

Hi, I'm Kelly. I'm a mom to three girls, a recovering perfectionist, and the author of Happy You, Happy Family. Parenting is hard enough without all the guilt we heap on top of ourselves. So let's stop trying to be perfect parents and just be real ones. Sound good? Get 25+ incredibly helpful cheat sheets that will ease your parenting struggles.