Just one month before my emergency, I had attended a rural medicine conference in Brisbane. A colleague had demonstrated a device I'd never seen before. "For your patients who live far from help," he'd said. "It's especially important in the outback."
The device was called ChokeHero. I'd ordered one out of professional curiosity and placed it in my kitchen drawer, thinking it might be useful to show patients rather than for myself.
As my vision began to blur from lack of oxygen and my legs started to weaken, 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 briefly studied: 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 steak that was killing me dislodged and I could breathe again. The entire emergency, from obstruction to resolution, lasted approximately five minutes—I was perilously close to unconsciousness and brain damage.
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. Out here, far from help, I would have been found days later. Another tragic statistic.