(TW: this post contains a story about choking. It was hard for me to write, and it might be hard for some to read. It's also a little gross.)
Seeing as how I was actually eating an apple at that moment, and considered it rude that I was talking to him while chewing some of it, I decided to swallow quickly before telling him the punchline.
A second later I realized I should have chewed a little longer, but figured it was too late. I would feel that mouthful going all the way down. Not fun, but I'd survived such discomfort before; and as long as I delivered the punchline, the suffering would be my secret.
Except...
It didn't go down. It stopped. I gave a little cough to clear my airway, and realized, I could not breathe at all. I could feel the piece of apple lodged firmly in my throat, blocking my ability to breathe.
I made a "just a second" gesture and walked away from my students, seeking desperately to be away from people while I dealt with the consequences of my foolishness. Dropping to my knees behind a sign, I spat all of the apple bits out of my mouth, and tried to gag or cough up the large piece obstructing my windpipe.
Nothing.
I started to turn purple.
A co-worker saw me and patted my back roughly, asking if I was okay. I lifted an arm and flapped it feebly.
The edges of my field of vision dimmed.
He ran for help. I was fading when I heard the school nurse shouting instructions behind me. Her arms wrapped around my torso and her fist dug suddenly under my ribs.
The Heimlich didn't do the trick.
I felt her gloved fingers jam into my mouth, probing back as far as they could to activate my gag reflex. That worked. Sort of. The deadly little apple bit moved a millimeter, allowing a tiny precious stream of air to flow around it. I came back, able to breathe a little. She managed to find a ripe banana and convinced me to try swallowing a small piece of it. I did, and the apple was pushed down the right tube, on its way to my stomach, with the heroic banana chunk.
This was on the second day of school.
Afterward, the nurse tended to me, gave me water, advice, and asked how I felt.
How did I feel? My throat was raw, my ribs were bruised; but what hurt worse was my pride.
I told her I was okay, but mortified. She looked horrified. "WHY?" she asked, incredulously. "All that matters is that you are safe and alive!" I agreed and felt silly for focusing on how embarrassed I was. "All that matters is that your kids' mom is okay!" Yes, yes, I knew that too.
As the day went on, my kind and friendly colleagues, some of whom had witnessed my near demise, and some who had heard about it, checked on me frequently. Concerned faces, sympathy, relief that I was okay: I knew I was surrounded by genuine care, and all of it made me feel worse and worse. I tried to avoid people for the next few hours.
Afternoon arrived and the nurse found me, asking how I felt. I gave her a quick thumbs up, but she looked worried and started to tell me how to care for myself at home afterward. She said I should call or message her if I needed anything.
If I needed anything.
Another lump blocked my throat, but this one was of my own making. Tears filled my eyes and I spent a second trying to figure out why.
Why, when I should have been grateful for caring coworkers, and a good end to a bad event, why was I burning with shame?
Once again, the nurse got right to the problem. "I know you have a hard time asking for help..." she started.
My thoughts: What? You don't know me, lady! If I need help, I can ask for it all by myself, (provided I can breathe and speak.) Besides, it's not an issue because I do my best never to need help.
Turns out, she wasn't talking about just me, but me and mine. My culture. We (and Germans) have a reputation, among people here, of suffering under the delusion that we can get through life on our own. Many of the Colombian folks I have spoken with have tales of foreigners coming here and nearly perishing from the common cold, or traveling with garbage bags, all because they were so reticent to solicit or accept help.
She asked, "What do you all think? That people who accept help are weak?"
I thought for a minute.
In that minute, I flashed back to one of many childhood memories that is drenched in searing Oklahoma sunshine. My mom and I were on the side of a busy road, under construction; walking to school, where I had just started 3rd grade. She had decided that was the day I would walk the rest of the way to school by myself. Big chunks of upturned red earth all around, cars whizzing by, I panicked as she told me I'd be going it alone. I must have protested because I vividly remember squinting up at her as she told me firmly, "Rebekah. It is important for you to be independent." So I was. I walked along the road alone, picking my way around the construction zone without issue. I felt stupid for wishing she'd stayed with me and kept in mind that I didn't need others as much as I might think at first.
Over the years, I had been grateful for that lesson, and tried to live accordingly. Working hard, enjoying some privilege, and playing it safe made collaborating with others purely a choice; rarely a desperate need. Making something from nothing, defying odds, standing on my own feet, with bootstraps for pulling myself up? I guess? My point is, it wasn't just my mom. These qualities are admired where I come from. She was preparing me for the life she knew I should be able to live.
Something dislodged in me as I answered the nurse, "When people need help, I want to help them. But, if I need help, all I can do is think of the mistakes I made that put me in that vulnerable situation, and blame myself for needing anyone."
Her eyes reflected a level of compassion, mixed with revulsion at viewing oneself so harshly. She told me that I was going to have to get used to people being very involved and helpful with everyone around them here. I knew that, it's one of the reasons I wanted to live in Colombia in the first place. What I didn't know was how hard it would be for me not to hate myself for ever truly needing it.
So, is everything figured out, fixed, all better? Not exactly, but I'll be here for at least a year. Maybe, during that time, deep programming within me will move a millimeter and let me breathe, even when I don't think I deserve to.
*joke answer: Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.
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