A Throat Condition

It was as if a dead man had a hold of my throat. Each of his fingers (he had but one hand), was a bone handled butter knife dull, but together they clamped my breath like a vice. "We’ve got to get you in ASAP, You’re going to choke to death." Death loosened its grip on me as if hearing its name said out loud. The Doctors office jumped sideways into an erratic twilight zone, inflating and deflating as I sat in a bleary bubble of shock. Death squeezed harder until I wheezed like a broken accordion. "Look!" I looked at the X-Ray, my larynx, and around it woody vines, fibrous ropes clutching a narrowing breathing tube. A Gordon’s knot. I told the surgeon about the knot. He nodded gravely and said, "It wants to strangle you." Is there a name for this condition? "Yes, we call it: ‘Dead Man Strangling Syndrome,’ surgery is the only answer, delicate, difficult, decidedly unconventional surgery, that’s the only way forward. First we need butter, lots of it, and an exorcist. Are you a Catholic?" Yes I was born in original sin and a spreading guilt. "Excellent" he said, rubbing his hands together, "then we may have a chance."