There are times in your life when you read something that takes your breath away. You’ll forgive the pun, but I felt that way when I read Elke Govertsen’s account of her throat trouble and how hard it was for her to breathe. I remember so clearly reading about it and thinking that I have never experienced anything like the fear that it must bring to not be able to breathe. But that was then, and this is now.
About three weeks later, my sister picked me up at my house and we went to a holiday party for an organization to which we both belong. It was supposed to be an evening of fellowship, games, caroling, and eating. And it was all of that, up to the point where we stopped to have dinner. Dinner was nothing exceptional, your basic Italian buffet of pasta, pizza, and salad. I sat eating and talking to a woman I had just met; we were remarking on food and all the things we can no longer eat. The laundry list of ways in which your body betrays you when you’re getting older quickly followed. Then the woman offered me a piece of gum. GUM. I rarely chew gum. No reason other than that I don’t often have it on me. But the Italian food was full of garlic and it seemed the prudent thing to do. By the second chew, I began to cough and sputter. By the third chew, my throat closed completely.
I sat there, dumbfounded, trying to understand what was happening. At first, I thought I swallowed the gum—but no, it was still in my mouth. I spit it out and tried to take a breath. Nothing. At the table, the other women were noticing that I was turning red and began to ask me questions.
“Are you ok?” I shake my head.
“You’re turning red, can you breathe?” I shake my head.
“Should I call 911?” Again, I shake my head.
I don’t really know how or why, but I immediately thought to myself that I would be fine and not to panic. I kept myself calm as I struggled to get oxygen to no avail. I stood up, thinking that expanding my diaphragm would somehow help (it didn’t). And I began to talk to myself.
“Don’t panic, you will breathe.”
“This. Will. Pass.”
“Don’t pass out. If you pass out, you will die.”
Somehow in the depths of my soul I just knew that as long as I was fighting to breathe, my throat would eventually open. But if I fainted, I would stop struggling and I would never wake up. It’s funny how long two minutes feels, especially when you are fully aware of what is happening. I had enough time to think how awful it would be for my family if I died. I thought that Christmas for my five and eight-year-old children would never be the same. I thought how hard it would be for my husband to get the news. And I remember telling myself that I couldn’t die at a holiday party. I could not leave my children for a party and never come home. It wouldn’t be fair to any of them.
Finally, at about two minutes, my throat opened for a second and I managed a sip of air. Just a sip, but I told myself with that sip, I could last another two minutes if I had to. Luckily, I didn’t have to. My throat began to open slightly. It opened enough that I could rake in air and take a small sip of water. With my throat partially open, I went outside into the cold air hoping that might help. It didn’t. I finally went inside and found my sister, who, having finished dinner first, was blissfully singing carols in another room. I, with help from the other women, managed to tell her that I was having trouble and I needed to go home. She went to the DJ and announced on the microphone that she needed an antihistamine immediately. When one was produced, I managed to swallow it and within ten minutes my throat opened fully.
This was the single most frightening thing that has ever happened to me. For weeks, I would tear up whenever I had to talk about it. My sister called my mother and told her about it (tattle tale) so my mother was worried. When I thought about it, I realized that I had had warnings that I didn’t recognize. The couple times that I had chewed gum that year always made me sputter and cough. I just thought saliva must have gone down the wrong pipe. Nope. I missed that my throat was trying to tell me something important.
But now I’ve learned a few things: To be calm when faced with a medical emergency, not to chew gum anymore, and when someone asks if they should call 911, the likely answer is YES>
I am now the proud owner of an epi-pen. And I carry mints in case of garlic.
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