Trying to make sense of the world and life through food and words.
Let’s talk about love. Let’s indulge our thoughts on one of the sentiments that fills our lives and gives meaning to our days, on the myriad opportunities we have to fall in love as we go through the motions of living. Not romantic love, necessarily. If we are lucky, we experience the heart-fluttering kind only a handful of times over the course of many decades.
Reading now the posts I wrote about dealing with breast cancer two (short) years ago, a few things jump out: the willingness to keep my fears at bay through rationalization; the unashamed request for support and a desire to process what was happening through writing. Most of all, though, what transpires is a request not to be seen as a victim, as sick or damaged. I was holding on tightly to the sense of who I believed myself to be.
Last week, I nearly choked to death. Not metaphorically – I literally nearly choked to death. But this post is not about my actual experience, as unfortunate as it was; rather, as the friend sitting next to me quickly understood what was going on, told me to get up from my seat and promptly applied the Heimlich maneuver, it’s about what happened afterwards. Or what didn’t happen.