#86: (Almost) Death by Grape Skittle

orange ya glad I didn't drop dead?

Monday afternoon, nestled comfortably in my divot of the sectional’s longest cushion, I picked through a bag of Skittles. Admittedly, my attention was more focused on season four of Kim’s Convenience. I sifted through the bag, shaking it, peering in, and shaking it again, hunting for purple.

Purple. Grape. Whatever you want to call my least favorite flavor. In the beginning, I’ll pair the purples with the reds. What are those technically? Cherry? But I like the reds on their own and in every other combination, so it’s a shame to waste them all on the purple. When it comes down to the final few, I suffer the purple alone.

At that very moment, I had four purple in my mouth, congealing in a half-chewed glob. In the bag, atop a field of oranges, yellows, and greens (lime again, thank god), was the final purple. My rooting around had come to an end. Oh, the relief to absentmindedly chomp without fear of an odd, purple bite! After the final grape Skittle, that sweet relief would be mine.

Still working the purple glob with my molars, I tossed the final grape into my mouth. It should be noted at this juncture: I’m not much of a food tosser. I’m not much of a tosser in general. You won’t find me tossing up berries or cheese puffs and catching them with my teeth. Do they even catch them with their teeth or just let them bounce against their soft palate? I wouldn’t know because food isn’t for tossing. At least, not for me. This particular toss was impulsive, celebratory even. Not at all routine. And it showed in the technique.

Just as Mr. Kim bid a customer, “See you!” the Skittle left my fingertips, careened past its molar-munched sisters, and lodged itself in my windpipe.

I’m no stranger to choking. I choke when I’m anxious. I choke when I’m not. I choke on water and air and nothing at all. But I had never truly choked, never object-blocking-my-access-to-oxygen choked, until this moment.

Time slowed to molasses. Thick and sickly sweet. I panicked. I spat the purple-salivated glob onto the coffee table, wrenching myself into an upright position. I clawed at my throat. Tried to cough. To heave. To dislodge the damn thing. It was a Monday afternoon. I was alone. Adam was at work. My neighbors were at work. I pounded my sternum with the heel of my palm. Beat my diaphragm with my fist. Nothing.

My vision started to spot. How long had I gone without breath? My eyes bugged. Their backs stung. Could I throw myself against the back of the couch? A kitchen chair? I rapped hard against my chest. Again. Again. Again. Then — poof!

A purple-stripped Skittle shot from my throat and skittered white across the laminate.

It was out. But there was no relief. No relief? But it was out! I could see it! Right there on the floor staring up at me! I had done it! I had won! It was out. I still couldn’t breathe.

I shot up. A new wave of panic thrust me to my feet. Without deciding to, I crossed the room to the bookshelf. The one my dad built. The one with all our family photos. I tried desperately to breathe. Nothing. A failed wheeze. Failed squeak. I couldn’t get air. It was all around me. Yet I couldn’t have any.

I braced myself on the shelves. I was so lightheaded it was hard to stand. Black spots crowded my vision. I tried desperately to blink them away. I couldn’t fight it forever. I was going to pass out. No. I was going to die.

I was sure I was going to die. I was going to die, and Adam would come home to find me dead. He’d see the white esophagus-washed Skittle on the floor and have no idea it was purple to begin with. Where would be the best place to collapse and die? Surely not in this corner by the bookshelf. That would be like some twisted game of hide and seek. I should collapse and die in a more courteous position. Probably right by the door, just to get it out of the way. Although then I would be blocking the entrance. A few feet back then? It didn’t matter. I was going to die. Adam was going to find me dead.

Suddenly, something in my body shifted. As the darkness closed in, my body summoned the strength to straighten up. She breathed hard out of our nose. I had nothing to do with it. She took complete control. There was hardly any air to escape our nostrils, but there was some. Some! It was like I had forgotten I had a nose. But all at once there it was again, capable of delivering oxygen to my brain. I tried to breathe in through that glorious newfound nose. A strangled trickle of air. A weak stream. But a stream nonetheless.

I tried again. And again. Each breath a bit more robust. Finally, I tried again to breathe through my mouth. A strained wheeze! A measly squeak! I was breathing. I was alive.

I stood for a few minutes, savoring my own survival. I was ragged and raw, but I was breathing. I had regained my breath. And it tasted like fucking grape Skittle for hours.