Vomit: An Autobiography

Vomit is the story of my life. 

I've been told I puked breastmilk at 3 months after a one hour trip to KC. I puked after every car ride where I didn't sit in the front seat. I puked on every plane ride, one of several reasons the Turtle doesn't fly. I only stopped puking regularly when I started driving myself. 

I suffer acute motion sickness. Actually diagnosed by medical professionals at 15, who wanted to put me on some kind of medication my mother refused because it was dangerous. Like a statin-blocker for the brain. I didn't need it because an adult in America can control what vehicle she takes and who gets to spin her around and what rocking chairs she sits in. I coped. 

Then I got furbabies. And the vomit continues. 

My Number One Son projectile vomits. For 16 years I've dealt with four foot sprays of regurge when he eats too fast, eats the wrong thing, when Mercury is in retrograde, when the dog eye-balls him sideways. 

His sister has chronic pancreatitis. From her, every couple of months, we endure bouts of vomiting that last for hours, long after her stomach is empty. She goes into quarantine. Nothing she can swallow for... we're up to 8 hours to be sure we don't restart the cycle. No warning. No pattern. Just one day after eating - uch uch uch blech! For hours. 

The funny part is she vomits other times, too, that are over and done. Blech. Move on. It's a crapshoot. Or vomitshoot. The Fits happen most when it's inconvenient, like 6 minutes before I have to go to work, or right before bed. 

I've cleaned at least as much vomit in my adult life as I produced in my childhood, and there's really no end in sight. Should I live another 50 years - and at this time I've accepted that I will - I have vomit to anticipate. 

I suppose the good news is, thanks to Covid nose, I don't smell it like I used to. 

Keep the faith.