About five or six years ago, I was down in St. Thomas with my then-wife and daughter. We were staying at the Marriott Frenchman’s Reef, an absolutely lovely resort, and we were enjoying a lazy day at the beach. One moment I was sitting on my towel, catching some rays and nursing a pina colada, and then, suddenly, I found myself in the surf, desperately trying to pull a drowning woman to shore.
To this day, I have no recollection of how I made the transition from Jimmy Buffett to David Hasselhoff. I don’t remember anyone yelling for help, I don’t even remember running into the ocean. And yet there I was, along with another guy about my age, fighting the waves and tugging this poor old lady up onto the beach.
What I do remember is how HEAVY she was and how her husband just stood there watching us, a look of profound sadness and confusion on his weathered, old face. I realized later that the woman was so heavy because she was full of water.
We dragged her up onto the beach and it was pretty clear to me that she was dead. Every time we moved her, water came spilling out of her mouth. She wasn’t the right color.
In an incredible stroke of luck, an emergency room nurse happened to be vacationing at our resort and was sitting nearby. She began CPR. I ran the length of the beach, hollering for a doctor. One brave young man told me that he was in training to be an EMT. “Let’s go, brother,” I said and we ran back to the old lady.
She was alive! The ER nurse had brought her back from the dead – quite literally. An ambulance arrived and they took the old lady away. I later learned from the hotel manager that she and her husband were visiting our beach from a cruise ship. They kept her in the hospital for a day or so and she was able to continue on with her vacation.
I tell you this story not to portray myself as a hero, but only because it stands in ridiculously stark contrast to how poorly I have performed under similar life-or-death situations involving people that I actually know and love.
A few years ago, for example, we gave my daughter (about three years old at the time) her first-ever Lifesaver and she promptly proceeded to choke on it. I was with her at the time, along with my then-wife and then-mother-in-law. Three seemingly capable adults vs. one fucking Lifesaver.
We all stood around for a few seconds in a total panic. Madeleine is choking! Holy shit, somebody do something! Somebody! Anybody! Hello?
I eventually stepped up to apply the Heimlich Maneuver. Bear in mind that I am 6’3” and 200 pounds, while my daughter, at the time, was probably about three feet tall and 30 pounds. I gave it a go and nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. My daughter had survived open heart surgery when she was 13 months old. Now, we were going to lose her to a piece of hard candy.
“Call 911,” I said to my wife and about 10 seconds later, my daughter managed to swallow the Lifesaver, which, thankfully, had melted down a bit (though not as much as me). The firemen arrived a minute later, God bless them, but it was all over by then and everything was fine.
Something remarkably similar happened a few years later when I was out to dinner in Hoboken with my good friends Andy and Suzy. Suzy loves to talk, so I knew something was wrong when a silence descended over the table. Sure enough, she was choking – not on a Lifesaver, but on a piece of skirt steak. I looked at Andy and he looked at me. Neither of us moved a muscle. Suzy looked at the both of us, desperately fighting to breathe. Her eyes said it all – “Would one of you fucking clowns get off your ass and help a sister out here?!”
I looked at Andy again and he at me. Our eyes said it all, too – “Dude, I don’t want to do it. YOU do it!!”
Suzy was standing up now and really struggling. Andy and I remained seated, engaged in our game of Cowards Chicken. Who would blink first? Not me, man. I couldn’t get a Lifesaver out of my daughter. Now, I’m supposed to get a skirt steak out of Suzy?
Like Madeleine, Suzy eventually took matters into her own hands and down went the skirt steak (or maybe it came out, I don’t remember). What I do remember is my deep sense of shame and embarrassment afterwards. A dear friend of mine had been in deep shit and I did nothing. I didn’t try and fail. I didn’t even try. Suzy, I apologize. Andy, you suck.
One more quick story… Last weekend, I was with my kids, my girlfriend, and her kids in Warwick, NY, visiting friends who have horses. We were feeding apples to the horses and there is a bit of technique to it where you hold the apple in the palm of your hand and provide a little resistance when the horse leans in to take a bite. The horses were slobbering like fiends (“Sour apples,” our friend explained), but we were having a good time.
My three-year-old son wanted to give it a try, so I picked him up and gave him a small piece of apple to hold. “Really hold your hand steady,” I said to him as the horse approached. About three milliseconds later, the horse was eating his hand. My son started yelling and, for a crucial split second, I did what I always do when the pressure is on: absolutely nothing.
The best part of this story is that my son still has all ten of his fingers and suffered only the smallest of scrapes on one knuckle. The second best part of the story is that my girlfriend managed to take a picture of the precise moment when my son realized that a 2,000-pound animal had mistaken his hand for an apple. I’m also in the picture. I have a near-total lack of expression on my face. My left arm dangles casually by my side, while I actually appear to be using my right arm to boost my son CLOSER to the horse’s mouth.
We had some ice cream later to make it all better. Nobody choked on a thing.
October 20, 2009 at 9:09 pm |
Great post! (… as usual). When the chips are down, I have faith that you come through. And so does the heavy set cruise ship woman you saved.