It’s ironic that the ways you imagine you might one day die are rarely the threats that ultimately claim you.
I worry about planes crashing.
Getting cancer.
Perishing in a car accident.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I might meet my demise from a piece of pork.
Yet there I was, on the eve of my son’s wedding, among 130 or so guests at a Welcome Barbecue. The catered spread of favorites ― chicken, pork, corn on the cob ― was hard to resist. Until that innocent-looking piece of pork lodged itself deep in my throat and refused to budge.
At first, I wasn’t overly concerned. But when several attempts to swallow failed to dislodge it, I made a beeline for the bathroom, my 15-year-old daughter right behind me. I tried to coax it down with a sip of Coke from the can still clutched in my hand, only to have the soda come right back out in a spectacular spray across the floor and walls.
Now I know what people mean when they say their life flashed before them. Though in that moment, mine focused more on the immediate future I might never see. Even while choking, my brain remained committed to catastrophizing, the thoughts arriving in a remarkably efficient progression: tragedy, guilt, then frantic wishful thinking.
I’m going to die and miss my son’s wedding.
I’m going to die and ruin my son’s wedding.
Why isn’t James here? (Our paramedic friend who was attending the wedding but couldn’t make the Welcome Dinner.)
As I hunched over the toilet desperately trying to get the chunk of meat to come out, my daughter attempted to alert my husband to the fact that I was choking. But anyone who knows the man knows how much he loves to talk ― and apparently, he was immersed in an especially riveting conversation. I remember hearing my daughter’s voice escalating with each increasingly desperate plea to get his attention:
“Dad!”
“Dad!”
“DAD!!!!”
“TOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!”
And then he was suddenly beside me, perfectly calm, though I suspect it was because he had no idea just how serious it was. (Further evidenced by the fact that he was initially much more concerned with cleaning up the Coke I’d spewed across the bathroom than with the possibility that I might actually be dying.) By now there were tears streaming down my face and sweat pooling across my body as I bowed my head, attempting to breathe through my nose.
“Do you need me to do the Heimlich?” my husband asked, still remarkably unfazed.
I nodded. Yes, and preferably before I die.
I had no idea that he even knew how to do the Heimlich maneuver. Somehow in 21+ years of marriage, that fun fact never came up. But he wrapped his arms around me from behind and gave one firm upward thrust.
Nothing.
So he did it again. This time, the chunk of pork finally broke free and went down.
I could breathe again.
Every time my husband recounts the incident, he boasts that he saved my life without even spilling his beer.
Apparently, we have very different definitions of the evening’s most impressive accomplishment.
Other than a sore throat for the next few days, I emerged unscathed ― and, more importantly, made it to my son’s wedding without becoming the story everyone remembered for all the wrong reasons. Still, I’ve had many flashbacks about those truly terrifying few minutes.
Yet I have to laugh when I consider that this wasn’t even my first absurd near-brush with death. I’ve had two concussions over the years, the first courtesy of our potbellied pig. While chasing her around the corral to give her medicine, I managed to clock my head on a steel bar and quite literally get my bell rung. (Evidently, pigs in all of their forms really have it out for me.) The second concussion occurred when a strong gust of wind sent a massive swim spa cover I’d precariously propped open crashing down on my head. Amazingly, it didn’t knock me out and pin me beneath it in the water.
In the end, I guess life has a funny way of choosing its own hazards.
So much for plane crashes, cancer and catastrophic car accidents. Clearly, I’ve been worrying about all the wrong things.
