The last time I threw up was six years ago. That was shortly before I discovered the magical power of advil to keep me from being incapacitated on a nearly monthly basis with cramps, and probably the last time I let my body treat me that badly before getting over my dislike of medicine and embracing this magic. I had come up to the high school on a weekend for extra preparation before my first debate competition. I spent most of it curled up in a ball within reach of the trash can before my parents came and got me. My teacher assumed it was nerves, but nerves never knocked me down like that.
A few days ago I had two more flights on my journey home from Seattle. The first flight was uneventful. The second less so.
It was raining in Denver as I checked in at the desk. Flights around mine were being delayed, and I was anxious to be home and nervous that I would have to wait, or worse, that my flight would be canceled and I would have to navigate spending the night in Denver by myself so that I could get on a morning flight. Luckily my flight was on time and they ushered us through the rain and puddles onto the plane.
Take off was blessedly smooth. Despite being as worried as I was about the weather and the effects it might have on the plesentness of the flight, on take off I was able to relax. Perhaps despite the fact that I have some trouble with small planes and the complicating factor of weather, this flight would be just fine.
And then we hit turbulance.
Everything was rocking up and down, shaking us around and lifing us into the air, to be held in our seats only by our belts one moment and shoved towards the floor the next.
I tried to close it out. I tried to embrace the motion of the plane. I tried to keep what little food I consumed at the airport between flights down.
And I failed.
More than any other emotions I feel surprise and relief. There is no chance to get the bag from the seat pocket and prepare for this. There is vomit on my face and hands and in my lap, but now that it’s happened my stomach is calm. Then disgust takes over as the smell hits me, and I feel relief that they lights are out so no one can see as I sit there in shame, unable to do anything. I think about getting upset, but there’s no use crying over spilt vomit.
After awhile I manage to get fingers, starting to dry, into my pocket to get my kleenex. I wipe my face. The man across the aisle opens his cell phone, providing enough light for me to locate the largest area of regurgitated food on my lap and spread the kleenex over it. I do what cleaning I can, but my suplies and mobility are limited. My pride does not allow me to ask for help in this. My pride is thankful for the white noise and the darkness for keeping anyone from noticing.
Ironic, isn’t it, that now, home, clean, stable and nausia free, my impulse is to drag this moment out into the light of the internet, a world where there are far more potential witnesses than on that tiny plane.
I hid it as best I could as we walked off the plane and into the airport. Waving off my sister and dad, eager to hug me, I walked straight to the restroom, washed my face and hands and started scrubbing at my jeans with a paper towel. Dad started up conversation with some of the other passengers he knew, and apparently I wasn’t alone in losing my dinner on the plane. I felt better knowing that. Which I suppose is part of why I’m writing this.
I threw up on the flight and sat for half an hour with vomit in my lap and coating my hands. This is an indignity which I suffered alone. Written about it makes it more real and less easily forgotten about and pushed aside. But it is over. I survived. And despite the terrible isolation and disgust I felt, I am not really alone. Other people have suffered the like before, and will again. If there is something we all have in common, it is that we have bad days and moments when we wish we weren’t there. We live through it. Life goes on.