One spring morning when I was four, I had a brush with death. My mother had just walked me and my little sister to “The Butcher’s,” a corner store two blocks from our house in Amsterdam, New York. Its real name was Partyka’s Market, after the family who owned it, but we never called it that. To me, The Butchers meant Bill and Ray, two nice men who worked behind the big white case with kielbasa, pork chops, and cold cuts inside, the men who smiled at me and gave me a slice of cheese. Many of my earliest memories are images inside and around that neighborhood store.
Besides Bill and Ray, I knew the family who lived above the store: the tall silent father, the house-dressed white-haired mother, and the childlike middle-aged sister who tended the zinnias, snapdragons and sweet peas climbing white string in the garden behind the store. I see three cement steps to the front door, big windows with cardboard ads for Lucky Strikes, and inside, three or four aisles of canned vegetables, cellophane wrapped loaves of bread, jars of pickles and sauerkraut.
I don’t know who gave me the Lifesaver that day. The hard candy with a hole in the middle is supposed to keep you from choking on it should it become lodged in your throat. My mother said that in a split second after she saw me choking, a salesman who happened to be in the store picked me up by my heels and while I was hanging upside down, slapped my back hard with his free hand. The candy popped out onto the hardwood floor.
I’ve been thinking about how long I have lived since then, and of friends who have passed away, some years ago and some more recent. I see, these days, how fragile life can be.
My mother told this story many times, so I know it made a big impact on her. But I don’t remember it actually happening to me. Decades before the Heimlich Maneuver was posted in grocery stores, supermarkets and restaurant dining rooms, how did the salesman know what to do? What if he hadn’t been there? And why don’t I remember it? Why do I remember all those details of the store and people but not the traumatic event that scared my mom and almost killed me?
I believe we all have near misses when we might have cheated death. Do you remember yours?
Tell me about it in the comments and I’ll put your name in the hat for a copy of The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George. No choking incidents, but a good read.
The winner of this month’s drawing is Nancy Taylor. She wins a copy of Kate Atkinson’s Transcription, a story of espionage in WWII England. Congratulations, Nancy, and thanks for adding to the conversation!
Linda C. Wisniewski 
10 responses to “Near Miss”
Interesting post, Linda. Reflection on the fragility of life and the role luck plays. (Not commenting to win a book since I was fortunate to win The Clockmaker’s Daughter a couple of weeks ago. Loved it. Thanks again.)
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You are welcome! Glad you enjoyed it.
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Not death exactly, but once I managed to aggravate my younger sister into throwing a pair of scissors at me. There is still a scar where the point hit my skin perhaps a quarter-inch or less below my eye. I would have forgotten about it, but my mother would look at that, shake her head and remind me of my close call for many years thereafter.
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Wow! And ouch! I understand why you still remember that one! Glad it didn’t do more damage to you. Thanks for sharing this.
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My mother often told me the story of how she went into the room where I was lying in a crib, and found me choking silently on a little silver rattle, shaped like a dumbbell. She grabbed the upper end of the rattle and pulled it out…Otherwise, I likely would have died. She does not know why she entered the room at that moment; something just “told” her to do it. I still have the rattle, with my teeth indentations on the middle bar.. But no direct memories of this incident remain.
I had a second near-death incident in 1999 – I suddenly developed ARDS, Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome (a bacterial/lung condition)… and was put into a drug-induced coma for seven weeks in the ICU at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston. My late husband was told I had just a 10% chance of living. I survived, but only have memories of emerging into consciousness and going through a long rehab…
Yes, life hangs by a thread…
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Oh my goodness, Carolyn! Two harrowing incidents. It’s a wonder we survived infancy and childhood, isn’t it? And that hospital stay in the ICU must have been so frightening for your husband. Makes me want to take a long deep breath. Thank you for sharing this.
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Great story, Linda. You were very lucky.
I have a similar story for you. When we lived in Lansdale, the food market was several blocks away. When I was about four, I would accompany my mother on her daily trip, holding tightly to her hand while I climbed onto the low cement borders in front of a house, pretending to be a tightrope walker. Somehow, as we reached the end of my tightrope and neared the store, I bolted out into the street, dashed between cars and in front of a trolley which sped down the street. I must have stood frozen because I don’t remember just how long I stood there before someone grabbed me, rushed to the curb, and gave me back into my mother’s frantic arms.
When my mother and the truck drivers asked me why I had run out into traffic, even at four or so, I had a reasonable explanation. I had to get meat for my father’s dinner.
The hero of the day was the borough’s plant manager, who had been driving the town’s maintenance truck. Seeing me in the path of the oncoming trolley, he slipped the truck into low gear and jumped out to snatch me from certain death. The truck slid into a parked car as he restored me to my mother. Memorial Park at Line and Main was his pet project as the maintenance manager and I can’t remember his name so that every time that I pass the Park, I think of that brave man with grateful prayers.
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What a wonderful story! This proves my theory that when we write about an event that has great emotional resonance, we remember all kinds of tiny details. I love the idea of remembering this man whenever you pass the park. Thanks for sharing this!
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Yes, a great story, Linda.
I write about this topic in my memoir, Patchwork: A Memoir of Love and Loss, so you may remember it. My spouse and I were driving home from a party on a foggy night in the Hamptons about 1am. Our car was brand new and we had been drinking (this was in 1966 and I don’t think society had been told to never drink and drive.) We were so young… He couldn’t find the dash button to clear the windshield and, unable to see, crashed into a parked car when he pulled over. Many hours later in ICU, I described to my mother that we had been arguing that he should pull over until he found the switch just before the accident.
The next day I had no memory of what had happened following the party and my mother never mentioned what I had told her that dark night. A few months later she said something that triggered the memory and it suddenly returned in detail.
Later in life, I had a flashback that opened a tunnel to long-repressed traumatic childhood memories. My experience has been that the really traumatic stuff can freeze within us in dissociation, but that it’s always there for recall in the right circumstances.
Ever since my recovered memories experience, I have profound respect for our brain’s ability to use certain mechanisms to protect us when we need it most.
Thanks for this opportunity to recall, feel gratitude for my body’s protective skills, and share those experiences here. Blue skies to you and everyone… 🙂
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Yes, MaryJo, I remember reading about this in your memoir. The brain is so resilient and adaptable, isn’t it? Thanks for sharing this!
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