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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.
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