[Note: For your sake, and mine, there will be no photos included in this post.]
I am not a graceful vomiter.
As I typed that, I thought to myself, well, who is? I assume there must be people out there who can do it. Take something like crying -- it can be done gracefully, with beautiful glistening tears that fall down your cheeks, or in an ugly, red-faced, swollen-nose sort of way. When it comes to crying, I have the strength (practice?) to cry somewhat gracefully unless I am very, very upset, in which case I sob uncontrollably, expel lots of nasal fluids and ball up tissues awkwardly with my hands.
I assume that I'm not a graceful vomiter because I don't have a ton of practice -- just the normal amount, I guess. But I have never been much of a drinker, and I avoid drinking until vomiting because I'm not a good vomiter, thus I don't get more practice, and that skill doesn't improve.
My mom tells me that I vomit like my father. "It sounds like you're dying," she told me. I guess it's never easy to listen to, but yes, I do think I sound like I'm dying. Feel like it too.
Anyway.
I got a great opportunity to practice this skill, though not gracefully, last month when I woke up feeling a little odd. Did I eat too much last night?, I wondered to myself. No, no I didn't. Somehow, the Norovirus had found me -- the "cruise ship virus," as it were. I feel a bit gypped because I didn't actually get to go on a cruise, though my mom reminded me that Google is sort of like a cruise ship but without waterslides. I tend to agree.
It was that terrible sort of sick when you think to yourself, you know, if I got the bathmat it could be a pillow and then I wouldn't have to go all the way back to my bed! I could just sleep on the floor here. By my toilet. As I writer, I love being sick because all of these rich, fragmented thoughts flash through my head that I am far too tired to write down. Maybe it's that swing from boiling hot to freezing cold or the vibrations when your body is shaking, but man, creative inspiration galore!
Anyway.
As it always does with the flu or some sort of virus, I rapidly reach the point of delirium and dehydration, so the key is to call someone to help me before I'm so dehydrated that the delirium has progressed to the point that I don't know how to call someone. Whenever someone has the nerve to suggest that I cancel my traditional insurance and switch to an HSA or whatever it's called, I remind myself that every other year or so I end up in the ER due to flu and, were it not for my insurance, I'd be way, way over the money allotted to care for myself, someone who is young and healthy. So with a quick phone call I expressed my plight, that horrible time when you reach out and you hope someone can help you.
That's the lesson, folks. This was life's way of drop-kicking me to remind myself that, hey, you really do depend on others, so stop all of that independent-bullshit talk and admit it. But more on that in a minute.
My one goal is always "Do not throw up in the car" (I failed), and then the second goal is to not look like a nut when I go into the hospital (also failed). But there I was in my bright-pink pajamas, staggering into the ER clutching my bucket and generally moaning and carrying-on because of the very sharp pains I was experiencing. They take you, of course, to those little rooms with the big open doors and curtains and get you into a gown on this very narrow bed where you will writhe around in pain for some number of minutes until a real doctor comes to see you. At the time, it really pissed me off because I was sick, damn it, and where was the doctor? In retrospect, you never want a crowd of doctors around you because that means something is really really wrong and your life is in danger. So, yes, just take your time. I'm sick, but I'm not terminal.
Being in the hospital when you're sick is the ultimate case of relying on another person to fix you. They could be giving me God-knows-what or diagnosing something I've never heard of, and how would I know? I'm under six blankets, simultaneously cold and boiling hot and completely confused as to what the best choice is for me at that moment (which is when you have to sign the consent form, ironically). It was monstrously uncomfortable until they got me hooked up to an IV, though by that point I was completely lightheaded and thankful I was lying down. IVs. Can't deal. But once they hook up the saline or whatever it is and you get the very cold drip, it's all good.
Anyway.
The nurse finally got the go-ahead to give me some pain medication. When they showed me that stupid smiley chart to help me think about pain on a scale from 1-10 (they said 1-10, not joyful face to painful face!), I wanted to throw it at her and yell, "Eight! Eight, damn it! I can't breathe!" But instead I just responded that it was a seven or an eight and that aspirin, frankly, just wasn't cutting it. At all. I was in an incredible amount of pain as she hooked it up, and then about two minutes later, it felt like my brain had melted in a good way.
"Ooooooooooooooooh!" I said. "I feel this now!"
"Does it feel better?" she asked me.
I was drooling from satisfaction. My brain felt massaged. It was at this point, I was later told, that I confessed to the nurse that I loved her and that she was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Did she know this? Maybe not. So I would tell her again. It was a morphine-derivative, apparently, and I guess I'm more of a flirt on morphine than on alcohol.
Anyway.
I woke up yesterday morning feeling exactly the same way. No, please no, I thought to myself. The last time I woke up feeling like that, I lost a week of my life to sickness. Of course, you start analyzing everything that you ate or everyone you talked to -- was that woman at the next table really sick? Did that kale I bought make me sick? Did I forget to wash my hands at some point? I guess I was just hyperaware about myself and my health because I am hellbent to learn from my mistakes, both in life and in health.
This whole life journey (say, the past nine months or so) has been about learning to accept help when I feel like I have nothing to give and when I feel like asking for that help will just be a burden on someone else. And it has brought me to terms with the fact that I sometimes I expect too much out of myself, especially as there are only 24 hours in the day. It also is a powerful reminder that I am the only one who can make sure I get enough rest and exercise.
So maybe this post isn't so much about vomiting after all. Thanks for the love and support, all. I guess I can find a balance between asking for help and caring for myself after all...
xo
Sarah
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