Scary food encounter retold

I am literally eating a piece of tasty, meaty, cheesy, cold pizza as I begin to write this. And it's so good!

I write this to illustrate a point: The Times-Gazette is actually a culinary delights club thinly disguised as a newspaper. I'm not kidding ... it's entirely true.

Anybody in public relations knows that to get a reporter from the Times-Gazette to cover a function, all you have to do is bait them with some food. The greasier the better.

But we often have food here as well. Take today, for example.

I started off with BBQ hotdog bites and chips and dip for breakfast, brought in by Mary Cook and Carol Spray. For my after-breakfast snack, I had some strawberry cake, also made by Carol for Sissy Smith's birthday.

For my post-after-breakfast-pre-lunch snack, I visited the Good Samaritan coffee at the chamber. I had a pork tenderloin biscuit, a sausage ball, and half a pimento cheese sandwich. A light plate for me.

For lunch, the Times-Gazette bought pizza for everyone because Dawn Holley, executive director of the United Way of Bedford County, and Joyce Adams, program director of the Caregiver Relief Program of Bedford County, visited our office as part of the United Way's fundraising campaign. (Both the United Way and Good Samaritan are worthy causes, in my book, and I encourage my readers to support them. In tough economic times, funding and support tends to dry up, and every little bit helps.)

Anyway, I had two slices of pizza for lunch, but passed on the cookies. I had another slice of pizza as I began this column Thursday afternoon.

I went home and ran two miles for the second day in a row, and am now feeling ready to start running three miles each time. I'm training for the First Choice Pregnancy Center 5K run planned for Dec. 6. At my last one, I struggled to finish in a little over 35 minutes, and I'd like to shave at least five minutes off my time.

I had a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and got plenty of sleep, so as I continue writing this morning, I am happy to report that despite all my face stuffing, I've lost another pound since last week. I'm back at my 225-pound wall. I have not yet been able to crack through this barrier.

It's hard work to counteract all we eat around here, but I've stayed busy and have had some positive results. A few people have commented lately that it is obvious I am losing weight, and that's nice to hear. Thanks for the praise -- you know who you are.

In fact, the only jobs I've ever had at which more food was available than at this newspaper were the ones at restaurants, which brings me to a good story.

The Night of the Cheese Finger

I almost killed myself by eating something I wasn't supposed to be eating one time.

I was working at a Spinnaker's restaurant in West Town Mall in Knoxville as a sauté cook. I think I was 20 years old, so it would have been about 1987.

My friend Mike accidentally overcooked some Cheese Fingers (fried mozzerella), brought one down to my station, set it on my cutting board, and said, "Here, John, have a Cheese Finger."

I furtively glanced around for managers, and after ensuring the coast was clear, I knelt down and took a bite. It was extremely hot and melty, and when I sucked in air to cool it off, I sucked a string of cheese into my lungs, which completely blocked my airway. I couldn't breathe, talk or cough, and I immediately started pounding on my chest to loosen it.

Mike came back and asked me if it was any good, and realized I was choking. He didn't know what to do, so I ran down the line to another cook, Jeff, who was cleaning out the fryer.

Mike told him I was choking, and Jeff said, "Yeah, right," and went back to cleaning the fryer. After realizing we weren't kidding, he began trying ineffectively to administer the Heimlich Maneuver. About this time, the manager, Pam, came back there to break up what she thought was a fight. I began running toward her, and she started running away until she realized what was really happening.

She was a small woman, and was trying to show Mike how to do the Heimlich. Remember that I'm not breathing. Mike -- in a state of panic -- refused to try. She called Jeff over to show him the maneuver, and told Mike to call an ambulance.

Jeff was trying to do the Heimlich again and it wasn't working. Mike picked up the phone and stammered, "What's the number?!?"

Pam and Jeff screamed in stereo, "9-1-1!!!!"

I knew I was going to die if I stayed in that kitchen. I thought to myself that maybe there was a doctor in the restaurant.

I ran out of the kitchen toward the dining room, but couldn't make it. Spots were swimming in front of my eyes and I hit the tile floor hard.

General manager WIll Stauber was off duty, but still hanging out at the bar. Some waiters picked me up and sat me in a chair, and Will began doing the Heimlich on me -- correctly -- using the back of the chair for support.

It still wouldn't work. That cheese was locked in tight. I knew I was going to die.

I thought of my mom and how sad she would be. My last thought was, "What a way to go. Choked on a Cheese Finger. What will people think?"

A sense of calm came over me with the acceptance of my fate, and the world went black.

When I came to that point of acceptance and lost consciousness, a miracle happened. My muscles loosened up just enough, and Will gave it all he had, and the cheese popped out. The rush of air into my lungs was like broken glass, but a second chance at life was worth the pain.

Will Stauber had saved my life.

The moral of the story is this: Food kills! ... Just kidding. The real moral is this: We have to accept our challenges in life before God will help us to get through them. Stop fighting the current and just go with the flow. I wish I could learn to better live by that principle!

Several years later, I ran into one of the waiters that had been working that night. He told me he had felt helpless, so he later took a class on CPR and administering the Heimlich. He was a professional waiter and worked in the field for many years after The Night of the Cheese Finger. During that time, he had the opportunity to use the Heimlich on two of his customers, saving their lives.

My suffering through the scariest few minutes of my life had not been in vain.

-- John Philleo is editor of the Times-Gazette. He can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 218, or by e-mail at editor@t-g.com. This column is scheduled to print every Friday.