David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published Sept. 14, 2004

I enjoy steak now via a garden hose

I did something Saturday I haven't done in, oh, probably five or six years. I ate a steak, and I have a doctor who crammed a garden hose down my gullet to thank for it.

Five or six years ago, I was a connoisseur of cow. I knew which restaurants had the best cuts of steak and how each restaurant best cooked them. My tastes ranged from medium rare to medium, depending on the restaurant. Anyone who enjoys a good steak knows that grilling is an art of subtlties and instinct, unless of course you prefer your steak well done - drop it on the grill and turn up the flame. Steakhouses don't waste their best cuts of meat on well-done orders.

It was a glorious time for me and my wife. We didn't have kids yet, so weekends were spent dining, going to movies, sleeping and lounging. (Repeating as needed.) If we were in the mood for a filet, we knew the best restaurant. Prime rib? We had a restaurant. You name the cut, we knew the best place to order it.

And then the esophageal spasms began to creep onto the menu, and it was not a welcome addition. Esophagael spasms cause food to sometimes get stuck in the esophagus before reaching the stomach. The food doesn't go up, and it doesn't go down. It just stays there, mocking me. It's an excruciating feeling. I can breathe OK, but I can't swallow -- anything. Food and liquid don't have anywhere to go. And without getting into too much gory detail, let me just say that you'd be amazed at how much saliva you produce during the course of a few minutes.

The worst part of this vile condition is that, for me, steak was one of the worst culprits. It's like Mother Nature's way of saying, "How's the steak, Dave? Good. I'm glad you're enjoying it. By the way, I'm going to rope off your stomach for a while. Now how's the steak, Dave?"

During the early days of my little dance with esophageal spasms, the pain and discomfort lasted only a few minutes, after which the disgruntled food would wave the white flag and resume its delightful GI journey. It hurt a lot, but it was manageable. After all, I'm a reasonable man, and a reasonable man can chose other things off the menu. I love a good steak, but if horrific pain and public embarrassment are the side items served with each entree, I'll stick to chicken, seafood, pork, pasta, whatever.

My plan worked for a few years. I'd have occasional bouts with a dense bread or an overcooked chicken, but nothing I couldn't deal with. A little biological quirk isn't going to ruin my good time.

But then, just as I was thumbing my nose at Mother Nature, this little biological quirk began to, well, ruin my good time. Years after swearing off steak, the choking began happening much too frequently. I couldn't simply avoid problem foods anymore because pretty much everything had become a problem food.

Adding to this nightmare was an ever-increasing timetable during which the choking happened. An episode that lasted a minute or two or three two years ago now was lasting an hour or two or three. By this time, I was knee-deep in fatherhood, and a three-hour choking episode didn't fit into our routine.

The proverbial camel-busting straw was in late May when my wife and I were about to see our favorite musicians, Rush, in Nashville with some friends of ours. My buddy had lined up meet-and-greet passes. We ate dinner before the show, and you just know what happened. I'll say this: Enduring a three-hour stabbing pain tends to take away some of the thrill of chatting with rock stars backstage.

Two days after we got back from Nashville, I called my doctor, and two weeks ago I finally went in for treatment, called an upper endoscopy. This involves the doctor inserting the aforementioned garden hose down my throat and looking around. Before he could do that, however, I was asked to gargle with a what I'd swear was battery acid, which inhibitted my gag reflex. Properly numb, the doc went in. The hose has a camera attached to it, and even though I was tripping through daisies in La-La Land during his look-see, I was lucid enough to realize that what I was saw on the TV monitor was the inside of my stomach. Talk about going into the belly of the beast.

After a thorough exam, the doctor decided that what I needed was a good ol' esophagus stretching. He performed it with a long, solid piece of tubing with a tapered end. It wasn't much fun for me, but the quality narcotics made it tolerable.

Two weeks after my esophagus was expanded with cartoon-like efficiency, I enjoyed my first steak in years -- a 9-ounce filet cooked medium rare at Outback. It was like visiting an old friend, except this time the old friend didn't stand up and choke me for three hours.

The moral of the story is never underestimate the wonderful things modern medicine can accomplish, and don't let a little thing like a narrow esophagus get between you and a choice cut of beef.

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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.