Tag Archives: vomit



I hate that noise. That juicy, splurching, glorpish noise that makes you sit bolt upright in the middle of the night suddenly certain that one of your kids has just coated his bed, his pillow, his pajamas, and his poor, poor Tigger with the remains of his dinner. That noise informs you that you had better wake up, because the next twenty minutes of your life will be consumed in a flurry of activity: peeling off gloopy clothes, stripping down slimy sheets and blankets, starting the washer, making the bed (or, if it is still drying from its furious scrubdown, throwing a sleeping bag out on the floor), and bathing and combing and dressing your darling in clean, sweet-smelling pajamas before you finally tuck him in to sleep once more.

The only thing worse than hearing that noise at 12:30am is hearing it again at 3:00.



I spent yesterday with my head hanging in the toilet, wishing I was dead.

So how was your day?

It started at about 4:30 in the morning, when I awoke to the unnatural sensation of two large fists thumb wrestling inside my gut and took off running for the bathroom. I made it. Just.

By 6:30, I was writhing around in agony, mentally going through the list of what I’d eaten the day before, trying to figure out whether it was the Wendy’s chili or the leftover baked beans that had done me in. Eventually, I decided it must be the flu, and prayed that it was the 24-hour kind. Paul, the picture of loving support, called in to work so he could stay home and take care of me.

When I wasn’t in the bathroom, I was passed out on the couch in varying degrees of consciousness. I have hazy memories of Caleb jumping on the couch next to me and Paul fixing food and doing dishes (he is great, isn’t he?) At one point, I noticed that “Yo Gabba Gabba” was on TV, but was too weak to change the channel! That was when I knew I was dying, after all.

By noon, my stomach was empty, but that didn’t stop the party. I was dry heaving so hard I fully expected to see one or all of my internal organs pop out, sucked along by the extreme vacuum force of my spasms. My head was pounding and my body felt like someone had driven a truck over it, then backed up and done it again.

To keep myself hydrated, I sipped Diet 7-Up. It tasted good going down, but came back up about five minutes later. In all honesty, it was one of the most pleasant puking experiences of the day. At least there were no chunks.

And so the day passed, in a blur of aches, heaves, sleep and spew, punctuated by a steady stream of sickbed whining on my part (“Oh, my stomach hurts!” “I feel horrible…” “It’s too hot/cold/noisy/bright in here!” “Can I have some water?” “Would you rub my back?” “I think I’m dying.” And so on.)

Eventually, I was able to keep down some water and a cup of cream of tomato soup that Paul made me (that’s what my mom always gave us when we were sick.) My stomach was still roiling, but by the time we went to bed, I was pretty sure I was over the worst of it. I slept like a rock.

Today, I feel like a new person. The thumb wresting fists have stopped, and all my internal organs are still in place, as far as I know. I’m exhausted, but I’m not in the mood to complain. After all, 24 hours ago I thought I wasn’t long for this world.

I’m still a little sore, but in a good way. It turns out that throwing up is a great abs workout.