An Evening to Die For…
They say that when you are perched on death’s doorstep, that your life passes before your eyes. In my case it was bill for an expensive French restaurant.
The evening began as a typical one for a couple celebrating a special night. Having secured a babysitter for our two young boys, my wife, Donna, and I did what we now seldom do, we set out together to enjoy each other’s company over a delicious meal and a glass of wine. The occasion was Mother’s Day Eve (since Mother’s Day has always struck me as a somewhat contrived “Hallmark-holiday” then I suppose I can simply declare it as worthy of an “Eve”). We saw it as a time for us to reconnect, laugh, cajole, plan and otherwise do what parents of young children rarely do, enjoy an evening of “us” time. So, I in my sport coat and my wife in a lovely and bright, spring-like ensemble, we settled in amidst the twinkling lights of the soft French décor. I started my evening with “Salade aux Poires et Roquefort,” (Mixed greens, warm pears, roasted walnut, blue cheese and balsamic vinaigrette). I shared it with Donna. For the entrée, Donna ordered the dish she had been pining for (thus, the reason why we were there) called, “Filet de Porc Farci aux Poivrons Rouge, Chevre et l’Epinard,” (Pork tenderloin with spinach, goat cheese and red pepers, wrapped in a puff pastry, with roasted garlic demi glace sauce). I debated between a filet of beef with Shiitake mushrooms and a peppercorn sauce and what I ultimately ordered, “Homard et St. Jacques Cardinal Gratinee,” (Restuffed roasted lobster and scallops with truffle, Gruyere cheese and lobster sauce).
Donna and I have been married for more than 15 years, so while my amazement and gratitude for her ability to manage all of the demands of motherhood and career are without adequate measure, there is, however, one indisputable rhythm that has coursed its way throughout our entire marriage. It seems that no matter what I order, I look across the table and find my wife’s meal to be more appealing. I call this being “out ordered,” but our waitress last night aptly termed it “food envy.” Regardless, what begins with a sample and ultimately ends with me finishing what she cannot, only confirmed the inevitable. As fabulous as my lobster was, her pork tenderloin dinner was better. Ah, out ordered once more. I vowed I would keep this reality to myself, but Donna could read it all over my face, which was a mixture of resignation and culinary ecstasy.
We topped off the main course with a full bodied Cabernet, 2005 J. Lohr, Seven Oaks, Paso Robles, California (I know, I know, why not a French wine?, well, it was because they did not sell a French Cabernet by the glass).
Thoroughly satisfied, glowing in the environs and the company, feeling like we had dissected and solved the problems of the (our) world and enjoyed a few laughs, our evening of French culinary delights had reached its final chapter. Upon the presentation of the check, I reached down to pluck my wallet, only to discover that in my haste to get out the door, I did so without my wallet. With an impish grin and palms to the air I explained the dilemma to my wife, who then hurried about attending to our debt with her credit card.
Thus removed from matters of commerce I drew up my glass of water for one last sip before our departure. Apparently, instinctively, at the same time, I drew in a large breath of air (believe it or not, I found a website that calculated the approximate number of breaths you have taken in your lifetime, based upon the average of 15 breaths per minute, times your exact age; in my case, I have breathed 355,410,735 times). Well, apparently, despite what one would consider being routine, after 355+ million times, this time all did not go as planned. The water seemed to current its path down the same road as the incoming air, and both dove down my wind pipe, or trachea, as the doctor would later inform. I let out a few coughs indicative of a bit of liquid that “went down the wrong pipe,” as my wife asked if I was ok. A dismissive hand wave attempted to impart that I was fine and a finger pointed to my water glass mimed my routine condition. A fraction of a second later the reality set in. Apparently, the amount of water that plunged down my trachea caused my over cautious trachea to think I was starting to list and to cease the inflow of water, in order to avoid drowning, my trachea completely shut down. The next few moments saw me trying in vain to draw needed air into my lungs through a passage way that had been closed. I could hear the sound I was making in this effort and it sounded exactly like someone who was choking to death, only in my case, I was suffocating. Donna reacted as I would have reacted. Her heightened, “Are you alrights?” took on more and more alarm as she said my face lost all color and my lips turned blue. Oddly, all the while, I was completely lucid. I knew I was not choking on a piece of food and I knew that my plight was triggered by nothing more than water. Without the benefit of having been through anything like this before, my instinct told me to do the opposite of what the horrified onlookers around me were doing, and to not panic, but to simply wait for my throat to relax and open up. Over gasps of shock and fingers pointing, I could hear a myriad of accents, so common in our region, the most discernable declaring, “Hey, dat guy is choking on a lobsta.” So in that moment, I reasoned that a good blast of the cool New England air out in front of the restaurant would forge its way past the blockage and free my lungs from their agony (although I have no recollection of pain). Meanwhile, poor Donna was trying to figure out a course of action. Again, without frame of reference, Donna reasoned that I was waving off the offers to give me the Heimlich maneuver out of concern for the dining enjoyment of the fellow patrons, reasoning, I guess, that I would rather plunk down dead before them, rather than fire a wayward piece of “lobsta” across the candlelit and lace tables. “I just thought you were being stubborn,” she would later recount.
As surreal as it was, I also found humor in the situation. As I made my way out the door, I was followed by Donna, attempting to give me the Heimlich maneuver, and a parade of people concerned for my welfare. Thankfully, as I had hoped, the second I hit that cool air, my trachea allowed a tiny bit of air to peak through, as though it was testing the waters, so to speak. This blessed sampling was apparently enough to keep me from passing out and to turn to address my closely closing team of respondents. Among them was a guy that looked like he had just been released from the NFL, and I was convinced he was in it just for the Heimlich. A woman looked me in the eye and explained that she was a doctor and asked if I was choking. Still unable to draw enough air to speak, I mouthed, as best I could, that I was just choking on water. She, and most of the building crowd took this as my dying last words, a plea for water (the very thing that caused all of this in the first place) and multiple glasses were instantly presented. Slowly, what felt like was the course of hours, air slowly started to creep its way past my sentry trachea, no doubt thoroughly inspected along the way. Using what little air I could to support speech, I was able to whisper to the doctor that it was just caused by water going down the wrong way. I heard the doctor explain to my wife that what I was suffering from was a “trachea spasm.” All the while, the NFL guy spied me suspiciously, no doubt wondering if a good Heimlich maneuver wouldn’t make everyone feel a little better for the uproar I’d caused. It goes without saying that the reaction and concern expressed by so many was deeply appreciated.
In such a situation where one feels perched on the very edge of life and death, it would be common, so I am told, to instantly relive all of the missed three-foot putts of my life, but I did not. I was more concerned if Donna had paid the bill (which she did) and how I would handle the delicate balance of breathing and drinking water, in the future.