something in my throat

I was starting to feel like I was coming down with something. My throat was hurting. But I decided to go to my grammar school class reunion anyway. I only got to see those guys once before (which was last year) since finishing school with them twenty-one years ago. This time, we got together in a square, all done up for Christmas, lit up with little lights, bustling with an arts and crafts market and a couple of hundred of people in small groups, all bundled up in the near-freezing weather.

First things first. We ordered some hot drinks from one of the stands: mulled wine for some and not punch for others. We gossiped and laughed, while gathering in numbers. Next we stumbled to a nondescript pub with food that one of my classmates called cafeteria-like, which he said he had guessed just by reading the menu. Of course, the pub was already filled to the brim with smoke, which only got worse when others in our party lit up cigarettes. Mind you, smoky restaurants are just about the norm here. I have only found one non-smoking place in Prague, but about that later.

Well, three hours into the night, my throat was so sore that I decided to call it quits. I gathered everyone up for a group shot and plunged into the night to descend the escalators down into the tube that leads home.

By morning, my voice was completely gone. An anomaly for me. I had to cancel my English classes. The next day, my condition continued. I was hoping the laryngitis wasn't permanent, like Tim with a not-so-faint glimmer in his eye fleetingly remarked it could have been. Everyone was high-fiving my husband: "It must be so nice to have a silent wife!" Meanwhile, I was giving those very same people the finger in the pocket.

Now, three days later my voice is back. There, albeit raspy. So, we decided to take me to town for an outing -- since I was back to presentable -- to the only non-smoking restaurant we know.

The place would be great if the food was better. They have a large children's corner with toys that keep Jonah busy so Tim and I can actually talk grown-up style. Once, Tim found something suspect in his tomato soup. It turned out to be a rather large cluster of wood splinters, possibly chipped off a wooden spoon. We took a break from that place, but decided it was worth another try, which it was. But today was another story.

When I finished my soup, lo and behold, I had a funny feeling in my throat. Like something was stuck in the back of my mouth. I drank some water. I coughed. I went to the bathroom to gargle. Nothing. Finally, I looked inside my mouth. You wouldn't believe what I saw: a long splinter-like thing, lodged into my left tonsil like a cupid's arrow. What???

I tried to get at it with my finger, which only made me gag. Then I tried swishing more water around in my mouth to no avail. I panicked and got the whole family to follow me into the women's bathroom to answer this: "Do you see what I see?" Tim didn't seem too phased. He tried his luck with his finger. Much a do about nothing.

I even went as far as briskly walking up to the waiters, who all seemed to be on some sort of a permanent break behind the bar, grooving to the music and flipping through fashion magazines, hoping they'd have the magical tool I needed. I asked for tweezers, but only got blank stares as I obviously interrupted the staff cocktail party dangerously close to the cash register.

We had to hustle home, food in boxes. Though Jonah was concerned, he did look forward to the home surgery. At first, he was going to take the matter -- or should I say tweezers -- into his own hands, but I told him an adult would be much better suited for that task, assuring him that I felt no pain, but that the mouth and tonsils are delicate and one has to be precise. Daddy would do the job while Jonah shone his bright, cat-shaped flashlight from uncle and aunt in my mouth.

Daddy, who as a teen wanted to be a nurse, washed his hands like a doctor would, soaping them up diligently. He dislodged the sucker with one swift move of precision. Jonah got to shine into my mouth and to look at the intruder, which turned out to be nothing but a very long piece of some sort of a spice. Perhaps sage?


A friend of mine commented that all this throat business could mean something. She said: "Find a healer - and get some work done on your chakras!" Though this sounded a little odd at first, I did, just to see, look up the "throat chakra." And here is what I found: In ancient Indian medicine with a two-thousand year history of healing, Vishuddha, the Throat Chakra, governs communication and growth through self-expression. Emotionally it governs independence, mentally it governs fluent thought, and spiritually, it governs a sense of security.

It just so happens that all these issues are very pertinent in my life right now. Now I'll have to meditate on this deeper meaning. And all it started with was just a little something in my throat.