A friend of a friend went to the hospital the other day. I really can’t recall what it was about, something to do with a herniated ulcer and a bleeding something or other.

Though I wasn’t tuned into the why and wherefores of his plight, it did bring back memories of my own brief encounters with the hospital.

I have been blessed with very few visits over the years. I’ve never had surgery (outside of oral), except for that one surgery my parents had performed on me, when I had no say in the matter. And then there was the week I spent in the hospital because I wanted to see boobs, but I don’t really count that as a real hospital visit, since no one was trying to slice and dice my body parts.

The other few times that I have been to a hospital was because of my own stupidity. It usually involved stepping on a nail or jumping out of an airplane and landing incorrectly.

And then there was the time that I had steak.

I only recalled the story because Parker and I were talking about this friend of a friend. I mentioned that I had had a procedure at the hospital once, a very unexpected one.

The evening started out with dinner at a Port Orchard fundraiser. We were all glammed up and dining on a steak dinner and a lovely bottle of wine. I wasn’t really paying close attention to the meal, but instead delighting in the conversation at the table.

That was until a particular piece of steak refused to continue its journey down my gullet, deciding instead to lodge itself sideways. Copious amounts of wine failed to lubricate it sufficiently and it was then that I realized I was choking.

Not choking to the point of death, mind you, but it was a bit difficult to breathe and there was no way this piece of steak was going to make its way on its own. We would have to go to the hospital.

My then wife drove while I hung out the car window, alternately bending over the sill and trying to puke by sticking my finger unceremoniously down my throat. Nothing was working, but Harrison’s emergency room wasn’t far away.

As we drove, I thought back to the last time this had happened. It was when I lived in San Francisco. An errant piece of meat lodged, 911 was called, firefighters arrived, and while two of them hit on my girlfriend, the third whispered into my ear, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to chew your food properly?”

Choking is not a big emergency, obviously. When we finally got to Emergency they asked me to wait my turn in the waiting area, handing me a small dish to salivate and regurgitate in if necessary. My then wife and I quickly slipped into gallow’s humor, hence the headline of this tome, while we waited for someone, anyone to help.

The guy entering in a tux was a momentary distraction. I wondered what emergency he could possible have. It didn’t take long to find out. I was his emergency. He was the ear, nose and throat doctor on call this particular night. I found this out when I was ushered into the treatment room, the doc hiding his tux under a green gown.

He didn’t waste time. He gave me a lovely dose of Demerol and proceeded to give me the treatment. First, a scope was placed down my throat. He took a look, said “yup, it’s steak,” pulled the scope out, waited a moment or two, then handed me a lovely color photo of it as a keepsake.

He then returned the scope to the scene of the crime and poked the piece of steak with the end of it. I could feel the piece slip the rest of the way down. I was so much better, and still enjoying the Demerol.

As for the doctor, I can only assume he told my then wife to bring me back the next day for a followup. I was still on a giddy high and wasn’t really understanding anything that was happening but enjoying it all immensely.

The next day we headed back. The doctor wasn’t as formal as the night before. It turns out that he had been called out of the symphony to treat me, hence the fine looking duds.

He told me to lay down on the table. Another shot of Demerol worked its way quickly through my veins. He then said he was going to widen my esophagus so that I wouldn’t choke as easily. It seems that over the years the muscles of your esophagus can get out of shape, so it’s harder to make food go down.

The remedy was quick and easy. He told me to close my eyes, open my mouth and not not open my eyes under any circumstances. That’s a bad thing to do to me, tell me not to do something.

I opened them just the same, just as a large pencil point object that looked like a pool noodle started down my throat. I choked a bit as I set eyes on it, and he told me to close my eyes again. Doctor’s orders.

Well, the Big Gray Worm, as I continue to call it, worked like a charm. It opened that pipe right up, and to this day, I have no problems, almost 15 years later.

When I mentioned it to my friend Bobby, he was astonished. He had no idea that someone could treat his choking tendencies, so I explained the whole procedure, telling him that “whatever you do, don’t look at the Big Gray Worm.

I don’t know if he did or didn’t, but he called two weeks later and thanked me for the advice to go get it treated. He was a new man, thanks to the Big Gray Worm and a piece of grisly steak.

As I told Parker this story, I think he was going to die laughing. I told him that would be a far better way to go than choking to death on a piece of cheap steak and red wine. He said, “I agree, dad. I really don’t want to ever think about the Big Gray Worm again. I’m going to have nightmares tonight.”

Neither do I, son. Neither do I.

In the Emerald City, cutting my steak into very small pieces right now,

– Robb