A home-cooked meal was on the table and Tarzan was ready to be watched when catastrophe struck.
My son is 16 now, alive and well and fast becoming a young man of substance and wit, humor and good character.
When I think about his birth (as I occasionally do), I see live action images in full cinemascope, color, and THX sound: His mother waking me at three in the morning, clutching her lower back for dear life, saying, “it’s time to go, he’s coming”. Us reaching the hospital and before the car comes to a complete stop, her jumping out of it and proceeding to hurl in the flowerbed bordering the parking lot (not an unusual occurrence under these circumstances, and it did provide much needed nourishment to the petunias). And how completely content I felt a “short” three hours later, holding my beautiful son in my arms.
Tragedy almost struck right after his fourth birthday. We were having a Gilboa guys’ night in. His mother was out with the girls and I decided to make a grownup meal of baked wild salmon finished in the broiler with a teriyaki glaze, Mediterranean couscous with peas, carrots, raisins and saffron and steamed organic broccoli.
The food was served and the animated Tarzan was ready to go in the DVD player. I poured pinot noir for me, and a glass of organic unfiltered apple juice for him. A quick clink of glasses “to the Gilboa guys” and we dug in. Everything was perfect, and, just as I was silently congratulating myself for evolving my son’s palate beyond the usual mac n’ cheese or pizza fare, all hell broke loose.
My young son with his usually easy, sunny disposition and even temperament was suddenly screaming and growling in distress. His face was changing colors; he was crying hysterically and alternating between hyperventilating and trying to suck some air in, (not quite The Exorcist but equally and completely terrifying).
As I was trying anything and everything to help him with no success, my heart was pounding with panic, dark scenarios were flashing before my eyes and my mind was exploring a million tragic and terminal consequences; all of them my fault!
Coming to my senses, I grabbed him and rushed to the nearest emergency room, ironically in the same hospital where he came into this world a short four years before. On the way I called my wife and “calmly” invited her to join us in the emergency room. “Don’t worry,” I promised her, “everything is fine, just a precaution, drive carefully”.
Luckily we didn’t have to wait long. The doctors took X-rays, looked deep in his throat, massaged it and poked at it. They huddled, called in an expert and argued in whispers of procedures and surgery. My wife arrived, thankfully calm, and into her arms he went. He took one look at her sweater and proceeded to grab her arm and start sucking on the soft cashmere with gusto. And just like that, in 45 seconds or less, the bone was dislodged from deep in his throat and made its way– in a glorious Olympian distance spit–to the other side of the hallway, barely missing a bleary eyed resident (apparently the combination of the sucking motion–contracting and releasing his throat muscles–with the accelerated production of lubricating saliva, pulled the bone out and up into his mouth). The resident picked up the tiny bone, so small that it absolutely had no right to cause so much pain and danger, turned to my son with a big smile and said, “Tell your daddy and mommy that a soft piece of bread would have caught the bone and worked just as well.”
The very next week, we decided to “get back on the horse” and have another guys’ night in. And with pride I report that the little Munchi requested salmon with teriyaki glaze, Mediterranean couscous, and steamed broccoli, which remains a favorite meal till this day.
Photo credit: Flickr / Maggie Hoffman
So ironic that I would read this story today….just last evening I served by grandson salmon with what I thought were large bones. It turns out there were some small ones present as well. All went well in our house becasue the four year old was on the lookout for bones; his Papi (grandfather), his mother and I were all watching as he took each bit….it turned out to be a working dinner for all of us. Chances are I won’t serve salmon with bones again until he is much older.
Nothing ventured nothing gained. My son loves salmon in spite of the the unpleasant early experience. Key is to be careful with the bones and have some soft bread handy, just in case
You know this now, but always serve bread with fish. Fish and chips places don’t give you hushpuppies just for fun you know.