November 27, 2006
The Third Time
In thirty-seven years, I have only barfed while away from home twice. And I remember both quite vividly because, when you're engaging in that graceless ballet that is blowing chunks, all you want is to be in your own home, vomiting into your toilet, and then crawling into your bed.
The first time was when I was in grade school, and, apparently, I accomplished the task while still asleep. We were on vacation at our Wisconsin cabin. I didn't even know I had ralphed until Mom was waking me up. I had puke in my hair and my ear.
That was the incident that ruined root beer floats for me. The float wasn't what had made me sick -- no, I definately had a stomach bug. But it was the last thing I had eaten before bed, and I haven't had another one in thirty years.
Our cabin is set-up in kind of an unusual way. There's main cabin, built in the 20s. And then there's the new cabin, which we still call the new cabin, despite the fact that it's older than I am. It has an extra bedroom and a bathroom (something with which the original cabin did not come equipped). The two cabins are connected by a screened-in porch we call the breezeway.
I was sleeping in the new cabin when I got sick on vacation. And I remember Dad, in the middle of the night, rigged up this clever alarm system for me with a fishing pole. All I had to do was pull it, and it would ring the dinner bell on the breezeway, and Mom would come running.
The second time I barfed away from home, I was in the E.R. with severe abdominal pain (a blog I have been promising for eons, I know). They gave me something to drink so they could x-ray my stomach or something, and it just came right back up. Fortunately, at the time, I was so stoned on a painkilling cocktail that I didn't even mind.
This weekend, Husband, Younger Step Daughter and I had a slightly belated Thanksgiving at his parents' house. Now, I really lucked out when it comes to in-laws. They are fun and kind and laid-back, and I always have a good time there. This time, the kids made and decorated gingerbread houses -- kewl!
So it was extra-disappointing when I got a huge headache Saturday evening, and it was still with me when I woke up on Sunday. However, I consoled myself that, hey, at least I wasn't spewing lava like Husband's brother! Apparently, one of the forty-seven dishes in which we had indulged in the past 24 hours hadn't agreed with him.
Ah, but Fate is a bitch, ladies and gentleman, and it had plans for me. Plans that involved prompting me to snarf down a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way back from Lafayette to Chicago.
When I started feeling nauseated, I didn't think much of it. Yeah, okay, ice cream is perhaps not the perfect lunch, but my body could handle it. After all, I've been training it with Oreos for breakfast for half my life!
But then the chills set in. Followed by the sweating. And that unmistakable feeling in your esophogus.
"Honey? I'm gonna throw up. Can you pull over?"
We were on the Indiana Skyway at the time. And if you're not familiar with the Indiana Skyway, it's about a mile in the air, and it's alwaysalwaysalways under construction. Luckily, we were on a stretch where there was actually a shoulder, so Husband pulled over.
The first gush splattered on my shoes and jeans. My awesome new Sketchers. And I remember simultaneously praying for a chance to breath, and cursing my stupidity.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go. So the other people on the road with us got a nice view of my partially-digested Pumpkin Pie Blizzard.
I don't think I'm be eating anything pumpkin-y for a while.
Husband is insane. He can feel like crap, then throw-up and be like, "Ahhhhhhh, much better! Can we have lasagna for dinner?"
But I hurl, and I have to don my bed jacket and take to the couch, sipping water and nibbling crackers for three days. My body has never been very happy about having to relinquish food. I get weak, spacey and shakey. And I have to walk around doubled-over because all my stomach muscles feel like hot, liquid magma.
It's not fair. I know Husband thinks I'm faking it.
Comments
I can't believe I spent the last 12 minutes reading someone's regurgigatory memoirs. I probably woudln't have tried a pumpkin pie blizzard anyway; Now I definitely won't. (Hey, I've got to get SOMETHING out of it!)
Posted by: Dagwolf at December 1, 2006 08:59 AM
I'm a puker - always have been. My Mom would keep a pack of Kleenex with several brown paper lunch bags rubber banded together in her purse so she could whip one out at the first gag.
I'm so used to it now that I'm more like your hubby, I can barf and immediately feel better and go on like nothing ever happened.
Posted by: Hope at December 4, 2006 09:42 AM