Right now, I’m sitting in a recliner next to my napping husband in our west coast pad while a whole gaggle of Petro teens frolic in the city. We made it out of Virginia Thursday night on the reverse red eye just as the icy mix began to stick. As it turned out, the kids didn’t miss a day of school on Friday after all because it was closed due to the weather. So instead of worrying about driving around on icy roads, I’m relaxing in San Francisco where it’s raining which only reinforces my want/need to snuggle up on the couch with the Mr. and be thankful for the way things work out…sometimes.

One year ago this weekend, my kids and husband were in here while I stayed in Virginia and did the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do – put Lillian to sleep. Tomorrow it will be one year to the day that she died. Sometimes, I get choked up because I feel like can’t remember how she smelled. Other days, I fully expect to see her stretching out in the sun on the rug when I wake up in the morning. Needless to say, I continue to miss her terribly and with my whole heart.

Last weekend, I was choked up as well but in more of a 911 kind of way. We were holding our annual Jazzercise potluck New Year’s party at my house and had just filled our plates when something went dreadfully wrong inside of my esophagus. What I thought was just a harmless bite of brie baked in pastry transformed into a cement dam inside of my airway. I was choking.

Never mind that I know the Heimlich maneuver or that I was surrounded by a room of women who are trained in it as well as CPR but instead of rushing in for help or giving the international sign for choking (which never even occurred to me) I ran away from everyone in a panic. My screwy thought process was to keep drinking water until the clog passed however my anxiety tripled when the water I was gulping went halfway down, hit the brick wall of brie and then made its way back up and flying out of my mouth. And I realized that I could not breathe.

It was the lack of air that made me decide to scream for help but when I tried, no sound would come out. So I did the only logical thing, I started beating on the walls. This failed to get anyone’s attention so I put my fist at the bottom of the middle of my ribcage and threw myself at the wall. It was a painful act but it eventually gave me enough of a jolt to trigger a coughing fit. That led to the deadly appetizer eventually shooting out and left me sounding like an 80-year old chain smoker for the reminder of the night.

Let me just tell you that when the party starts with you almost dying, it gets pretty darn crazy from there. I mean, after you save your own life, you feel like you owe it to yourself to celebrate.

And that we did. Possibly too much…

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