Excerpt: 'I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can!'

April 9, 2009 — -- In his eight seasons of hosting the very popular "Dancing With the Stars" television show, host Tom Bergeron has had to handle strict judges, a fainting actress, shocking eliminations and quick throws to commercial breaks. But the television veteran always does it with a comedic flair that keeps audiences interested and entertained.

Now Bergeron has written a new book about his career experiences called "I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can!" The Massachusetts native and Emmy nominee describes his first broadcast job at age 17 and his subsequent high-profile gigs, which have included host of "Hollywood Squares," "America's Funniest Home Videos."

Read an excerpt of his book below.

Chapter 21

I was facedown on the bed, suffocating. I couldn't move. In the distance I could hear Lois's voice.

"He's not breathing. Tom! Tom!!"

With great effort I jerked back my head and sucked in a lungful of air. Still, I felt like my body was encased in pudding.

"What's your name?" "What date is this?" "How many fingers am I holding up?"The questions were coming at me from different voices. I was aware of more people in the room now. Their faces felt inches away from my own. The room. I know where I am. I'm in my bedroom in Connecticut. But who are these people? And why do I feel like I've been partying with Timothy Leary?

Earlier in the day I'd been in New York, not far from the studio where Fox After Breakfast originated. I'd had lunch with two friends, the show's co–executive producer Paul Shavelson and coordinating producer Helen Tierney. We were catching—and kvetching—up.Paul, a wonderfully creative talent and engaging eccentric, had been a major reason why Breakfast Time had continued to shine after Peter Faiman's departure during its first year. Helen, who had produced my Magic FM radio show in Boston—and given me the nickname "Jerky"—was my only choice when Peter offered me the chance to bring one person with me to New York. She'd become like family to Lois, the girls, and me. It was mostly her warnings about the Fox show, along with Lois's, that I'd chosen to ignore.

It had been several weeks since I wearily cashed in all my vacation time, effectively quitting Fox After Breakfast. Paul had cautioned me that the network wasn't likely to welcome me back from my break. I assured him I wasn't planning on returning anyway. Basically, Fox and I had decided it was best if we saw other people.

Paul picked the restaurant for our bittersweet reunion. I had the salmon. Bad choice, as it turned out. Within hours I'd be a candidate for the Food Poisoning Hall of Fame. Not that Lois and the medical team knew it at the time. They all thought I was having a major heart attack. So, immediately after I'd aced the questions in the paramedics lightning round, we moved right into the "hightail it to the hospital" round.

I can be glib about it now. That night, however, it was frightening. Lois's mom, whom we absolutely adored, had died earlier in the year from cancer. Now my wife thought her husband was dying, too. And the paramedics, who at one point said, "He's going into cardiac arrest," weren't very reassuring. Lucky for me, Lois stopped them from administering an adrenaline shot after they laid me out in the entranceway downstairs.

I'd passed out on the stretcher as they tried to maneuver me down the stairs. I remember, as they moved me along the upstairs hall, seeing the closed doors of my daughters' bedrooms and being thankful they were both sound asleep. Then, for the first time, I wondered if this was what it felt like when you die. That thought, coupled with the jostling of the stretcher and some major nausea, sent me into a swoon worthy of my favorite Osmond.

The next thing I remember: I was looking up at the light fixture near the front door, trying to recall where I'd seen it before. Lois, having ordered the paramedics to put down their needle, yanked hard on both of my ankles and ordered me not to die. We all did exactly what she said. It's never a good idea to mess with a determined redhead.

In the emergency room following the ambulance ride, and still in a major fog, I announced to no one in particular that I wanted to sit up.

"If he wants to sit up, sit him up," I heard someone say. Lois told me later it was the ER doctor.

Several hands moved to my shoulders and back, and suddenly I was upright. I belched. Really loud. Lois and the nurse, who were each holding a standard-issue, liver-shaped plastic puke cup, turned to each other in alarm.

"These aren't going to be big enough," Lois said.

On cue, the Mount St. Helens of salmon lunch specials erupted from my bloated gut.Seconds later, oblivious to the massive cleanup going on around me, I sighed. The fog cleared.

"That's better," I said.

Over the next two days, a number of follow-up tests were conducted, including a coronary angiogram, to confirm that there was no heart "event." In that test, dye was injected through a catheter that had been inserted into an artery in my upper thigh. Almost immediately my earlobes flushed warm. Within minutes the doctor announced that my heart's plumbing was as clear as a baby's. Which for some reason made me crave a cheeseburger.

The culprit, in addition to the foul fish, appeared to have been my vagus nerve. Apparently, as the food poisoning worked its magic, my stomach bloated and compressed the vagus nerve, which effectively slowed down some functions of my sympathetic and parasympathetic system.

Or something like that.

My sister is the medical professional in the family. Once I redecorated the ER, the pressure released and everything rebooted. I was almost as good as new.Except that I was also, once again, unemployed.

The excellent coronary angiogram results notwithstanding, the previous year had taken a toll. I was already emotionally and physically depleted even before getting bitch-slapped by bad salmon.

The weekend after I was released from the hospital, we took a medicinal family trip back to Portsmouth. It was there that I finally decided, much to my agent's relief, to take her advice and heed the call of the Roone.

Arledge, that is.