I needed Mexican food, so we all met Chad at one of our favorite restaurants for dinner.  We were seated, chowing down on the chips and salsa and waiting on Chad to arrive, when I noticed Deacon’s hand over his mouth like he’s trying to catch salsa drips.  No salsa left behind, buddy. Good job.

“Here, honey, do you need a napkin?” I ask him as I pass one his way.

His hand doesn’t move to take the napkin. He doesn’t look up. And in the same half second I notice these things, I realize he’s not making any sound.  No coughing, no sputtering, no “thank you,” just… nothing. He’s choking.

I start back blows before there’s even time to make a decision about what to do.  I’m pounding that poor kid’s back with the heel of my hand so hard you can hear it.  

His head moves a little.

“Did you get it up?  Is it out?” 

Still no sound.  I jump to my feet and keep pounding on his back.  There are a half dozen other parties in the restaurant, and from my peripheral vision I notice all the ones in my line of sight looking at us.  I’m officially making a scene. And I better see something change soon or we’re gonna have to switch to the Heimlich, and that’s really gonna be a show.

I have no idea how my other kids are processing what’s happening, because I’m hyper focused on getting that chip out of Deacon’s throat.  I just keep pounding. I don’t know how many times I hit him, but after what seemed like forever, he finally coughed and started moving and breathing again. 

I sat back down, gave him a drink, and made eye contact with a few of the people who had been staring, giving them a tight-lipped half-smile.  I don’t know why, except that I’m Southern. That’s what you do when you make eye contact with people you don’t know.

I went back to my chips and salsa, watching Deacon eat out of the side of my eye, and said nothing.  I didn’t want to make a huge deal of it or scare my other kids. It was over, and everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.  I don’t know what I expected, really.  Some acknowledgement of what had just taken place, or a kind smile from a stranger, or a “Good job, Mama,” or “That was scary,” or I don’t know, ANYTHING.  I finally spoke up to our friend Natalie who was eating with us.  

“Well.”  

That was all I had.  What did I expect from anyone else when “well” was all I had to offer? I don’t know.  But I expected something.

There are so many moments in which the earth tilts for one person, one family, one small community, and yet everyone around us just keeps right on living as if nothing happened.  They go right back to their chips and salsa without a word.

My heart immediately went to my friends who have lost children, both before and after birth, some of them suffering the loss of a baby the rest of the world didn’t even know existed.  And no one says anything. The world just keeps moving, and they’re expected to keep moving right along with it. They don’t have a choice, really. “Life goes on,” as they say, even when one of the most important lives in your own world has ended. The sun still rises, the teeth still have to be brushed, the bladder continues to remind you of the functions you can’t control, and time moves forward.  

But our defining moments, our time-stopping experiences aren’t confined to death, and they aren’t all sad.  When Chad asked me to marry him nearly twenty years ago, I spent the next week developing a personal understanding of what it means to be elated.  

I walked around with my head in the clouds, seeing the whole world differently, while everyone around me was completely ignorant to how everything had shifted inside of me.  I carried a secret and personal joy that no one could take away from me.  

But everybody else just kept on living the same life they always had, unaffected by my own emotional climate change.

No one else was going to acknowledge that my kid could’ve died that day, but I had to.  I took some deep breaths, shook out my hands, and took a second to be grateful that I noticed, that I knew what to do, and that Deacon was ok.  And also that Chad hadn’t been there, because he worries about them choking all the time anyway and he would’ve been freaking out.  

It would’ve been nice, I think, to have someone else just pat me on the back and ask if I was ok, but clearly I wasn’t going to get that.  But I choose not to be stoic. I choose to listen to myself, to acknowledge what’s happening inside of me, and to accept the fact that I can feel scared and brave and proud and sad and relieved and thankful and nervous and miffed all at the same time.  It can all sit inside me, tangled up like a plate of spaghetti, and I can see it for what it is without having to separate all the noodles from the sauce.

I don’t need to wait on anyone else to give me permission to feel any of those things, or to validate them as appropriate. And if one of those people staring actually has lost a child at some point, I can’t even begin to imagine the depth of pain they probably revisited in those moments as they watched me fight for Deacon. I’m sure every grieving parent everywhere would fight to the death to give their child life, or relief from their suffering. They don’t need me to give them permission to feel what they feel either.

I’m glad that not every day is filled with moments that burn themselves so painfully into my memory. And I’m certain I’ve been the one who failed to acknowledge someone else’s crisis – or overwhelming joy – more than once.  But I’m definitely going to try to do a better job of seeing and acknowledging from now on.  

Not just for others, but for myself, too.  

It felt pretty good to acknowledge everything that moment was and could have been instead of ignoring the significance it held for me. I think I’ll hold onto that practice. 

And, in case you were curious, I will not be giving up chips and salsa, nor will I be requiring my children to do so.  Things happen. I don’t want them to live in fear of chips and salsa and miss out on all the good food they could’ve had along the way. Sure, we want to be responsible about the risks we take, but they could choke on broccoli, too. And chips and salsa taste way better than broccoli.
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