I remember my grandmother’s pill case, can call it up in my mind in a flash. In my youth, it was an object I always associated with “advancing years,” with the unfortunate decline in health that can sometimes accompany the passage of time. So, I always figured if I had to buy a pill case, it would have been for me or for my husband much later in our lives when and if necessary medication in significant quantities with varying and at times confusing dosages became part of our reality.
But this is my now-seven-year-old son’s pill case. It has been his necessary and constant companion since October 2011. At the height of its usefulness, it housed five pills in the AM and six in the PM. And even for the most organized among us, it offered a sense of security that the prescribed combination necessary to keep his seizures at bay was what he was receiving, that no matter how tired we might have been, no matter how distracting life was at the exact moment of administration we were giving him precisely what was required. This case came along on vacations, on day trips, on overnights at his grandparents’ house.
We never missed a dose, never got it wrong. And it is thanks, by and large, to this piece of plastic with fourteen compartments that we filled every week with the concentration and precision of world-renowned scientists.
But last night I opened and closed it for what we are all fervently hoping is the last time. WED pm. Open. Close.
Our son is still on anti-seizure medication; but the very small amount has rendered his pill case unnecessary and soon, we hope, nothing but a memory.
Independent of seizures? Freedom from medication? The Fourth of July, for us, has a whole new meaning.