Two weekends ago, my throat seized up for an entire weekend. I was unable to eat or drink anything from Friday night through Monday morning.
As long-time sufferers of my column already know, without warning my throat has been known to lock up two or three times a year. Usually these episodes last all of 10 minutes, so I just assumed it was one of those knick knacks life decides to throw your way if it catches you having too long a spell of peace and harmony.
It was an odd time for my body to revolt. In the weeks leading up to the great Anvil In The Esophagus Tour of 2013, I’d switched to drinking water 90 percent of the time, pretty much sworn off fast food and eaten more spinach than Popeye.
Apparently, this new regiment ticked my body off and it decided to revolt. After taking a bite of food equivalent in size to a garden pea that was then masticated into the consistency of sand, my throat seized up tighter than Rush Limbaugh’s girdle after a trip to the Sizzler.
(The judges would have also accepted “tighter than Keith Olbermann’s hat after reading his fan mail.)
The last time the ol’ food pipe went on strike, it was caused by having a drink of cold water, which made me feel incredibly manly. I’ve observed people in restaurants shovel food into their pie holes with all the finesse of a water buffalo, yet I have to be careful taking a sip of water. Just a few days ago, my 3-year-old daughter took a big gulp of water, winked at me and said, “That’s how you do it, big boy.”
Once while taking a train trip to New Jersey, I saw a guy eat an entire Egg McMuffin in two bites — while talking on his cell phone. I was conflicted; sure, this guy sounds like the soundtrack to a documentary on animal pornography while he eats, but not only does he not choke, he carries on a rather lively conversation about his fantasy bowling team without missing a beat. Meanwhile, I’m nibbling on a rapidly browning banana that was green as a gourd when I started eating it four hours earlier.
By the time Saturday rolled around, I assumed the throat would’ve loosened up … but no such luck. I had band rehearsal that day, so I figured the waves of deep bass that would be bouncing around the room would loosen things up. Not only did the throat not loosen up during rehearsal, I developed a case of hiccups with a level of severity unseen since Tennile beat Captain senseless with a saxophone on American Bandstand in 1979.
When I was still unable to even drink anything on Sunday, I started to get a little antsy. Sure, hiccuping like a steam-hammer while unable to eat is a great way to lose a few pounds, but I’d just about had enough of Choking to the Oldies. When the problem showed no signs of improvement on Monday, I had a family member take me to the doctor.
Other than the odd physical for work or life insurance, I’d never been to a doctor. One reason for this is that I’ve been blessed with good health; also, I have a white-hot terror of anything involving needles or blood.
I did undergo a voluntary procedure that can be filed under family planning a few years ago, and you can read all about that in my book “Making Gravy in Public” (Moodring Publishing, 2011). I won’t give too much of the plot away, but let’s just say it felt like lighting struck in areas lighting has no business being.
To fix my problem, they were basically going to run a garden hose equipped with a light and a camera down my throat. To do this, they’d need to knock me out, which meant I’d have the wonderful experience of being poked for my first IV. Upon hearing this news, another part of my body tightened up to squeeze-two-nickels-into-a-dime proportions.
The talented, beautiful woman who administered the IV did a wonderful job. She could tell I was no fan of needles since I’d managed to turn my head a full 180-degrees away while she pushed the sharp metal rod into the unsuspecting flesh of the top of my right hand. Since I didn’t scream, she told me I’d acted like a big boy.
When they wheeled me back to the procedure room, they asked me to turn on my side. Out of an unnecessary sense of caution, I made sure they knew this was for a throat procedure and not a muffler job. They laughed and assured me they knew which end they were working with.
The anesthesiologist was a genius, because 20 seconds after he started that little drip, I was out of here. When I woke up, I was in the recovery room with no memory whatsoever of the procedure.
Having never been unconscious or even drunk before, I was still feeling the warm, fuzzy feeling of the knock-out juice for quite a while. At that moment, if someone had attacked me with a hammer, I don’t think it would have bothered me.
Since the procedure, the throat has behaved and I don’t have to cut my M&Ms into quarters any more. If all goes well I should be cleared for salad by Christmas.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase music, books and throat balloons at jondawson.com.