volume eighty-four

bite-sized

I have been noticing my Dad doing a lot of reflecting lately, asking me if I remember parts of my childhood and then sharing parts of his. It was on our way from the airport to Nan and Pop’s when I arrived in Australia, that he asked me, “Do you remember that island?” pointing it out to me through the dirty train window.

“How could I forget?” was my reply. It was on that family holiday I have my only real memories of a relaxed Mum — swaying in a hammock, my soon-to-be baby sister creating a mound that poked over the top into my view, her long curly hair swaying in the wind, her eyes closed.

I remember games of UNO at the dining table. I recall Dad going out fishing for our fresh dinner. For four years old, I would say that is already an impressive memory to have of an event so long ago. There is one other thing I remember from that island, and that is eating the fish that Dad caught. For the first time, my fish wasn’t in nugget form, it was fresh and delicious. We all sat around enjoying an unforgettable family meal and I was instructed on how to remove the meat from the bone in order to eat it safely.

“What happens if I get a bone stuck in my throat?” I asked.

I could tell you my Mum said she would give me milk or bread to wash it down, or that my Dad said they’d try and fetch it out by finding it with a torch, or my sister said it would never happen and I was making a fuss out of nothing, but I don’t remember their answers. I just think they were all the things they tried when moments later I confessed, that a bone had found its way to my throat and wasn’t moving.

It was on this train ride with my Dad in November I recalled the story I know well, having been told it so many times. It is the story of a boat ambulance sent and paramedics who had no luck so they took Mum and I to the mainland, where we were transferred to an ambulance on wheels and they too had no luck so they took us to a hospital where the nurses and doctors tried and tried to retrieve the bone and eventually said a specialist would be in in the morning. That specialist was successful in reaching in and breaking the bone lodged and scraping down the walls on either side of my throat. Then he was able to extract half and put it in a jar we would keep for far too long, and the other half would fall to its doom to be digested.

As I recalled this traumatic experience to Dad, it clicked. 

I realised that maybe this is where my fear of choking began. It’s the thing I am too scared of to even answer with when people ask about my biggest fear. It’s the thing that will make me close my eyes and pray it will be over soon if someone coughs at the dinner table. It’s the thing that will make me throw out my chair and run to the other room with my hands over my ears if someone’s food goes down the wrong way. It is the reason I tell my sister I will never babysit her children. It is the number one cause of my panic attacks, when I am presented with a meal in a restaurant and the pieces are far too big to eat in a bite and far too complicated to reduce. Foods like a piece of sushi, or large broccoli in a stir fry, or noodles or stringy vegetables that are best cut through with teeth but refuse to fit into a mouth that is forgetting how to work and a throat that is rejecting swallowing or regurgitating so the food sits in limbo, waiting for me to make a move.

I have powered through dates looking like a fussy eater deconstructing my avocado maki. I have pushed away plates because I was “full”. I have stood up alone in my kitchen, eyes wide, convinced this is the end, with my hand on my heart, more times than I can remember, purely because I forget how to swallow safely and am convinced whatever is in my mouth is going to lodge itself. Then once I make it through, I am left with a racing heart for a while. I have eaten things a little bit crumby, a little bit salty, a little bit saucy, and seen the light. I have chewed smoked tofu to the point of liquid and I have opted for soup on hot days because other menu items intimidate me. I have, thanks to the advice of a friend, researched how to practice the Heimlich manoeuvre on myself, but now just terrify myself that although I know how to do it, I thankfully haven’t had to do it, and so do I really know how to do it?

Some days I am fine, enjoying shoveling popcorn into my face on the lounge solo, while watching Australian Idol. Then the performance makes me cry, and then my breathing becomes distorted, and then I put the bowl aside because I recall the line from 30 Rock that sees me better than I see myself most days:

Liz: I don't have time for dating, I have more important things to worry about.

Jack: I would think that the single woman's biggest worry would be choking to death in her apartment.

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here are three things I struggled with this week:

🥦 Large broccoli in my stir fry.

⚖️ Balancing getting my work done and wanting to spend time with a friend. AKA adulting.

💧 Back-of-knee sweat. It’s hot!

here are three blessings from this week:

⛴️ Bucket list achieved! At the time of you reading this, I have ferried myself over to Rottnest Island. Quokkas here I come!

🏊‍♀️ My entire body — including my head — under water.

🌙 Video of my niece running out to see the moon and “Send a video to Aunty Loz! You know the girl in the purple scarf!”

here are three goals for the coming week:

🎨 Get back to creativity in the morning, work later.

🪣 Check more off my “must-do” list in Perth/Fremantle. Y’ALL I AM TALKING ABOUT SOLO ARTIST DATES!

🖁Reply to my large archive of texts that are piling up. I am not ignoring you, I am tired and screen fatigued and ignoring you until a later date. WHY DID WE ALL BECOME SO ACCESSIBLE?

here is something I enjoyed this week: 

I don’t read EVERY volume of every newsletter I am subscribed to (just as I don't expect that you read every one of mine). However, there is an exception and that is The Red Hand Files and this volume is bookmarked for future reference again and again and again.

pics or it didn’t happen:

marian (my friend who snapped this pic) captioned this “robo-terror” and she is correct. I did not like that a robot scooted behind me every so often with hot food and my face says it all about how I felt when it was my food for the taking.

I love you. I’m so grateful to those who read my substack 🧡 because I really love writing it to you,

LD

xoxo