A choking gasp. Then a chair scraping, a wineglass shattering. Senator Whitmore, the guest of honor, the man whose foundation this whole gala existed to celebrate, was clutching his throat. His face was going the color of the tablecloth. His wife screamed. A cardiologist at his table stood up, froze, and said someone call 911. Vanessa was still mid-sentence about my cheap shoes when I moved. I crossed the ballroom in six steps, cleared the table with my forearm, and had the Senator on the floor before his security detail understood what was happening. Not choking. I could see it in his eyes, in the asymmetry of his mouth. Anaphylaxis with a stroke presentation on top of it, and his airway was closing. I called for a steak knife and a pen. A waiter froze. I looked up and said, calmly, I need a blade and a hollow tube, now, I am a trauma surgeon. The cardiologist finally moved. Ninety seconds later I had a field cricothyrotomy done on the ballroom floor with a Bic pen barrel, my hands steady, the Senator breathing again. That was when the doors banged open. Four men in dress uniform. The one in front, three stars on his shoulder, scanned the room, saw me kneeling in blood, and snapped to attention. Colonel Reyes, he said, ma’am, we got here as fast as we could. The room went silent. Vanessa’s champagne flute hit the parquet. The Lieutenant General kept talking. Ma’am, the President asked me to personally escort you to Walter Reed tonight. Your Distinguished Service Cross is being upgraded. Congress wants you in dress blues by Tuesday. I stood up. I looked at Vanessa, who was still holding the seating chart that had put me at the overflow table. I didn’t say anything. I just handed David the bloody pen barrel, walked past her cheap shoes, and followed my escort out. David told me later she left before dessert.
