With the introduction of a new friend of my youngest daughter to our house, I was in charge of dinner. The plan was to barbecue a nice Tri-tip which would be the cornerstone of the meal along with baked potatoes and a salad. Little did I know that my evening would include only a bite-sized piece of what I thought would impress my daughters’ newest friend, and fill everyone’s belly.
This new grill that I have is one that my wife agreed to buy as the last three barbecues had become a victim of rust and overuse, seeing their final resting place in a death knell of collapsing metal from the crushing jaws of the Marborg trash truck. We were pleased to have this new grill as we are blessed with a large backyard, and friends to entertain in it.
I had done a pretty good job on this piece of meat. It was slightly overdone, but the middle was still nice and pink. I like cooking Tri-tip because it is such a forgiving meat. As I brought it into the house to slice up for dinner, I noticed that it was steaming hot. It had the lovely aroma that only a Santa Maria rub can create.
I sliced up the meat into medium slices. I took the end piece and popped it into my mouth. I thought I would taste it and take the edge off my hunger. It was a little bit hotter than I had expected, so I moved it around in my mouth to share the pain of the hot food. I also half-chewed the meat on its’ orbital route of my mouth. I quickly swallowed it and immediately knew I was in trouble. The meat had traveled half way down my esophagus and stopped. Thank God it didn’t lodge in my throat – I could still breath. I thought that I would be able to drink a glass of water and force it the rest of the way down.
This happened to me once before high up on top of Mammoth Mountain. It was a Tri-tip sandwich that time. I was thirsty before I took bite-one. It was stuck, and I managed to get water, and after repeatedly throwing up, I was able to finally throw it all up.
It was a logical choice for me again to drink water, with the expectation that the food would go one way or the other.
My wife, who can ultimately fix just about every problem a person can have, came around and tried to do the Heimlich Maneuver on me. It was a heroic idea, and a valiant attempt to solve the problem. However I could still breath just fine. I was just throwing up, every couple of minutes.
Finally I conceded to calling 911 to get their thoughts. I made sure she told them that I could still breathe. I had imagined our firefighters rushing to the scene, only to be disappointed that I was still breathing – no work for them to do. My wife said they would send an ambulance.
“No thanks – I don’t need a 2000 dollar taxi ride down the street.”
Being the stubborn person that I am I insisted on driving myself to Cottage hospital. It is only a couple of miles, I thought. I had to control my breathing and stay calm. I did pause briefly to puke out the window, but other than that we arrived without too much problem.
I never have liked the idea of going to the ER. I have always felt that the ER is for people who are dying. I only wanted to arrive unconscious and in an ambulance. I did not even want to enter into the whole arena of the Triage Nurses lineup.
However, I had no choice.
Throwing up every five minutes was not pleasant. After initial check-in we were able to go outside and wait in the parking lot which has been converted into what resembles an outdoor café. There are chairs and tables that are comfortable enough. One might even expect that people eat there during lunch.
It was still warm outside from the day’s heat so other than puking every five minutes, it was rather pleasant. My wife checked with the staff every five minutes to see if they were ready to move me into a room. It seemed to be timed with my wretches into a plastic cup which had been the third part of a Taco Bell meal earlier in the day.
Since my esophagus was plugged half way down. Each time the normal saliva drizzled back into my throat, I dutifully swallowed – until the water level reached my gag reflex and I again puked and restarted the process all over again.
Once in the room, the doctor said she would give me a smooth-muscle relaxant which would likely let the meat pass the rest of the way into my stomach. We all had such high hopes. Twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, and the gastroenterologist team was called in.
The team finally arrived and they seemed very confident about being able to help me out. They arrived with a very large machine and said they would send a tube with a camera down my throat and either push the obstruction down my throat, or pull it back out.
My wife was escorted out of the room. This was good because there are some things a man doesn’t want his wife to see. For me, being vulnerable is one of them. Physically vulnerable, at least. I am a big man – 6’4” and about 250 pounds. I have been through some pretty tight situations as a Navy diver and Submarine sailor and I have never panicked or lost control of myself, even when I have seen shipmates of mine falter.
The doctor asked me “Is there anything you want me to know before we begin?”
“I have three kids, OK? They still need me in their life. Got it? I have to survive this.” I replied.
“I understand. You have nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing and you are in good hands.”
The technician said I should gargle the anesthetic solution which would make it easier for them to put the tubes down my throat.
I said “I need something to puke into.” They had taken away my little puke cup. They just said
“Can we have your hat?”
They were referring to my Santa Barbara ball-cap that I like to wear. For some reason, that hat became something that I could not part with. It took on a new level of importance to me. I think I felt that if I could keep that hat on my head, then my life would return back to normal shortly. Giving them the hat was not an option.
“No, it’s my security blanket.”
“OK, lay back on your side and we will squirt the anesthesia into your throat in preparation for the cameras.”
“Well I need something to throw up in!” I protested.
“Just lay down, we have suction!”
I lay on my side and they squirted the liquid into the back of my throat. It had that horrid taste that reminded me of the same stuff the dentist uses for fillings. I puked immediately, all over my lovely new hospital smock. One more try yielded the same results.
“F&*# this!” I said sitting up.
“This is not working. Give me that cup of anesthesia!” I quickly gargled it and swallowed it as instructed and then puked my guts again, only this time into that pretty blue tub they have on hand for these fun events.
As I lay down again, they started the drugs which would supposedly relax me. I leaned over to look at the doctor. Fear had struck me very suddenly. I think it was the idea of that bite guard. They were putting something in my mouth that would prevent my body from doing what was natural – clamping down on a snake going down my throat.
“Doc. Dude. I’m really scared OK?”
I said it twice, to be sure he heard me. He just nodded and they pushed more drugs into me. I finally complied, lay on my side and endured something that I can only half remember.
At one point I remember, half way through the procedure, they grabbed my shoulders and said “Just concentrate on breathing right now.”
I stopped freaking out for a moment and did as I was instructed. I had a freaking anaconda half way down my throat and I had to focus on breathing. Fine. I breathed. They pulled out the stupid Tri-tip and then came the snake.
“Let me just say that was not something that was fun. I do not want to repeat this.” I said with what I thought was dry humor.
All I really remember is seeing my wife again, hearing that I had to be on a liquid diet for three weeks, and walking out of the hospital. I still had my hat.
My wife drove me home, much to my protestations. I slept soundly, talked hoarsely, and am just a little bit gleeful over how much weight I might loose on my new diet. I have had flashbacks throughout the day of the procedure. I am hoping I will soon forget this experience.