In case you didn’t hear, a few weeks ago I fell unconscious 15′ from my roof without injury.
I’ve never choked before.
Woofing down a garlic knot, I was screaming at all the kids in my kitchen when it got stuck over my air pipe. I tried to cough to dislodge it. Couldn’t. Tried inhaling. Couldn’t.
Panic sets in pretty fast when you can’t draw breath.
My wife comes over and pats me on the back. I hear her say that she thinks I’m kidding around. Hunched over, I start stomping my feet. One of the girls in the kitchen yells, “He’s choking!” I try nodding my head, but just keep gasping for air. Someone screams, “CALL 911.” I start looking around for something to hurl myself against to dislodge the piece of dough.
At that moment, my oldest daughter, Agatha Rose, gets behind me, reaches around and grabs her hands, and starts doing the Heimlich. I feel her passion with every thrust of her fists into my abdomen. I her cry. Her daddy is choking to death. After the fourth or fifth pull, I cough. Air. Tears. Shaking.
My life is one miracle after another, man.
And my daughter is a hero.