My method of dealing with health problems has always been to pretend they don’t exist until they get too painful, messy, or annoying to ignore. And that method is precisely how I ended up in urgent care. I’ve never been a fan of doctors or hospitals. I’d like to say that it relates to some sort of childhood trauma that I’ve been unable to overcome, but in reality, it’s because every doctor’s visit I’ve had since I hit puberty has ended with some doctor in a tight belt calling me fat and asking me what it is I eat every day.

The answer was, I eat terribly. But it’s not like a little extra protein was causing the immense sinus pressure plaguing my mornings and evenings. This visit to urgent care was different, though, because for the first time ever, it was for something they could genuinely help with. I was choking.

The walk in Kaiser’s Southwood office was always the same. It always felt as though no one wanted you there. Like your sickness or ailment was an inconvenience amongst their conversations of past relationships and annoying baby mamas. The little kiosk they had on nearly every corner to gode you away from bothering the poor receptionist with your pesky appointment was proof of that.

The dozens of people constantly attending Kaiser have had a few years to get acclimated to their system. This time, the gagging, gasping sounds I was making in between short breaths allowed me to pass on the kiosk and pay for my spot in urgent care.

My younger sister settled into the plastic leather chair beside me, doing her best to support me despite her hatred of germs. Even with the scattered coughing of the various people on the inside, she avoided spraying her hands with the alcohol she kept in her bag and made sure I was still able to breathe past the steak lodged in my throat. She tapped her foot against the vinyl floors, done up to look like wood panelling, and texted my mom updates on how I was doing.

A black lady with buzzed blonde hair and thick bivocals stepped from one of the three doors tucked behind a large piece of frosted glass. She deadnamed me, like most doctors do. Another reason I hated the doctor’s office. She took my vitals and asked me why I was there; I struggled with my sister’s help to explain what I was going through.

I’d been eating leftovers, watching TV with my sister, and foolishly thought that my several vigorous chews on a large bite of steak would be enough to keep me from choking. It’s an experience that happened often. I talked a lot, and rarely did the threat of choking stop me from immediately speaking after I swallowed. I never spoke with my mouth full, but I didn’t want to stop yapping for long.

So sometimes, the only answer my idiot brain would come up with was to risk choking and swallow. It went well enough most times, though I did have to take a few deep breaths before I kept going. But this time, I felt the bite slow down in the dead center of my chest. I tapped one time, three times, swallowed the spit pooling on my tongue, and tried to pretend I was okay. Then I tried to quell the panic I saw on my sister’s face when I began to heave and vomit saliva. I was in the car at my mother’s request within seconds. I threw up in a stray plastic bag my sister kept in her car on the nine-minute drive towards the massive Southwood facility.

My mother showed up just as I was called back towards one of the exam rooms. Seeing her walk in, dressed for her job as a preschool teacher, stressed but pretending to be okay, didn’t make me feel relieved. I felt annoyed. I’d already inconvenienced my sister by having her drive me here. Now, my mother had rushed from work to be by my side, just because I had the eating habits of a toddler. The door to the exam area slowly slid open, and an automatic button pressed from the other side. The bald lady with the thick glasses returned from behind the frosted glass and took me to my exam room. I watched as the wood panelling shifted to linoleum tiles as we stepped past the threshold. Urgent care rooms were prepared for the absolute worst their people could handle.

Something about this place felt deeply eerie. Dimly lit with fluorescent lights that did their best to wash the color out of everything in the room. The light blues of the sheets and curtains became gloomy greys, stirring nausea in my chest. I could hear chatter from nurses, hear the beeping of a heart monitor a room over, and the loud hum of the air conditioning. The room was covered in medical gear, some of which I couldn’t figure out the usage, but most was simply for examination. I lay on the hospital bed and spoke meekly past my heavy breathing to the nurse, who then informed me that someone would be back soon to take a look at me; I tried not to look deathly terrified as she placed a cuff around my arm. I felt it bear down on my bicep as it inflated, squeezing me to take my blood pressure. Beautifully average as always. A fact that continues to surprise even the most experienced doctors. People love assuming fat people have high blood pressure.

My mother replaced my sister as the worrywart, trying her best to make me feel better. I tried my best to pretend like I wasn’t choking that badly. In fact, I couldn’t have been, considering how long I’d been breathing low and spitting up the saliva attempting to move past the steak in my esophagus. But it was painful. It was scary, and I wanted so badly for it to all stop happening. I was moments away from vowing to never eat steak again when the doctor entered.

A blonde white woman with blue eyes. Everyone was blonde in this office, it seemed. She asked me, much like everyone else had, what was going on. She got an explanation from my mother, then nodded her head. She chastised me about my eating habits, though this time, I suppose I deserved it. After choking, and all. She asked me a few questions, and I tried my best to answer them.

The doctor was smarter than she let on. Within moments of speaking to her, I felt my chest tighten. I couldn’t speak or breathe; the pain that had dulled for the last few minutes grew in a matter of seconds. I felt tears prick the corners of my vision, the fluorescent blasted blues all stirring around through the blur.

I leaned over, and the doctor readied a little baggy. I felt my chest tighten further before I finally heaved. The steak was out. Along with the water I’d been sipping on, and the spit I couldn’t swallow. I coughed a bit, closed my eyes, and grimaced as the doctor squeezed the steak through the bag.

“Pretty big piece,” she said.

“I’m telling you. Goddamn, Tia,” said my mother.

I felt so fat.