Just one month before my emergency, during a medical retirement gathering, a colleague had given me a device I'd never seen in my 40 years of nursing. "For when you're at home alone," she'd said. "It's new, but it's already saving lives."
The device was called ChokeHero. I'd placed it in my kitchen drawer, more out of politeness than belief that I—of all people—would ever need it.
As my vision began to blur from lack of oxygen, I remembered the device and managed to reach my drawer. With fingers already tingling from oxygen deprivation, I fumbled with the packaging and followed the instructions I'd only glanced at before: Place, Press, Pull.
I placed the mask over my mouth, pressed to create a seal, and pulled to create suction. In an instant, the piece of bread that was killing me dislodged and I could breathe again. The entire emergency, from obstruction to resolution, lasted approximately 60 seconds—though it felt like an eternity.
As I sat on my kitchen floor, catching my breath, the reality hit me hard: Had I not received that device, all my medical knowledge would have meant nothing. I would have become another statistic.