It would be highly ironic if I were to finally meet my maker from choking on a probiotic. But that is something that very nearly happened on the day of my father’s wedding.
I’ve considered my death a lot over this past few weeks, thanks to my old friend ‘anxiety’ doing his best to concoct every feasible reason in my over-active brain for why I will never see my children again. Choking to death on a probiotic tablet, however, is something not even my over-fertile imagination could have conjured up.
Even more ironic was that we were wandering through Brompton Road cemetery at the time I first felt the capsule lodge uncomfortably in my oesophagus.
At least the inhabitants of the cemetery died of plausible, bonafide reasons like Bubonic Plague or The Great Fire, I remember thinking, embarrassed that my death would be fuelled by hypochondria.
How embarrassing would that be, I said to the old man, if I died trying to prolong my life? Who’d have thought that the modern trend for balancing the biome of your gut could have such dire consequences?
As I’ve long suspected, too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing.