Choking Incident

It was supposed to be an easygoing Sunday dinner with friends—just a few of us catching up, laughing, sharing some drinks. It was the kind of night where the biggest worry was whether we’d run out of wine before dessert. I never thought I’d spend the evening fighting to save someone’s life. Dinner was already underway, and we were about halfway through the meal. It wasn’t fancy—just spaghetti, garlic bread, and some salads—but it felt special because everyone had shown up for once. The chatter was loud, the laughter constant. I remember sitting at the head of the table, watching everyone joke and eat, thinking, This is nice. This is exactly what I needed. That’s when I noticed Greg. He was sitting across from me, his plate piled high, the way he always did. Greg loved food—he was the guy who always went back for seconds, then thirds, without shame. Except now, he wasn’t eating. His face was red, and he was gripping his throat. At first, I thought it was just him being dramatic—he was always a joker, pulling faces or doing impressions. But then his chair scraped back violently, and he stood up, his hands clawing at his neck. He made this horrible gagging sound, and that’s when it clicked: Greg wasn’t joking. He was choking. The laughter around the table stopped instantly. Everyone froze, looking at each other like, Is this really happening? What do we do? “Greg, can you talk?” I asked, standing up so fast my chair tipped over. He shook his head, his eyes wide and watering. “Someone help him!” Lisa shouted, her voice high-pitched with panic. “I’ve got it,” said Mark, sitting closest to Greg. He jumped up and got behind him, wrapping his arms around Greg’s middle. I remember thinking, Thank God, Mark knows the Heimlich, but that relief didn’t last. Mark yanked upward, once, twice—but nothing happened. Greg’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and the gagging stopped altogether. He was silent now, just clutching at his throat like he was trying to pull the blockage out himself. “Harder, Mark! Do it harder!” Lisa screamed. Mark tried again, but his hands slipped, and Greg stumbled forward, collapsing onto the table. Plates and glasses clattered to the floor, the spaghetti sauce smearing across the white tablecloth like blood. “He’s not breathing!” someone yelled. Panic set in like a wave, crashing over all of us. Lisa grabbed her phone, trying to call 911, but her hands were shaking so badly that she fumbled it onto the floor. “I don’t know how to do it!” Mark admitted, stepping back, his face pale. “Move!” I shouted, shoving my way to Greg. I’d only ever seen the Heimlich done on TV, but instinct took over. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled as hard as I could. Nothing. “Come on, Greg, come on!” I was practically shouting in his ear. I tried again, harder this time, my arms aching from the effort. His body jerked, but still, nothing came out. The room was chaos—people yelling instructions, others crying, the sound of Lisa’s frantic 911 call in the background. Greg’s knees buckled, and he went limp, dragging me down with him as we both hit the floor. “Don’t let him die!” Lisa sobbed, kneeling beside us. I tilted Greg onto his back, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. I knew we were running out of time. His face was turning purple, his lips blue. “Do chest compressions!” someone yelled. “I don’t know how!” I snapped back, my hands hovering uselessly over his chest. Just then, Sarah—quiet, introverted Sarah—pushed through the group. “Let me try,” she said, her voice trembling but determined. She knelt over Greg, positioned her hands, and started compressions. Her movements were strong and steady, and for the first time, I felt a sliver of hope. After what felt like an eternity, Greg suddenly convulsed, rolling onto his side and coughing violently. A chunk of garlic bread flew out of his mouth, landing with a wet thud on the floor. We all froze, staring at the disgusting piece of bread like it was some kind of miracle. Greg gasped for air, his chest heaving as his color slowly returned. “Holy… shit,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. Everyone erupted at once—half laughing in relief, half crying from the emotional overload. Lisa hugged him so tightly that he had to push her off, muttering something about needing space to breathe. The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, finding us all huddled around Greg, who was still lying on the floor, looking dazed but alive. They checked him out, and after some oxygen and a quick exam, they said he’d be fine. That night should’ve been a wake-up call—a reminder to learn CPR or the Heimlich properly. But honestly? I couldn’t even bring myself to think about it. All I could do was replay the moment Greg stopped breathing, over and over in my head. Even now, months later, I can’t sit down to a meal without watching everyone like a hawk, waiting for someone to choke. And garlic bread? It’s banned from my house forever.