Two Words: Pepto. Bismol.

A couple of days ago I thought I’d try the tuna sandwich at a local deli instead of my usual smoked turkey.

That one decision screwed up my entire day.

At first it was pretty good, actually it was tasty all through the very last bite. I had a satisfying lunch and was on my merry way, but little did I know that my stomach was slowly, but surely rejecting every morsel of that tuna sandwich.

A few hours later, I left an uncomfortable rumble in my belly.

Hmm, that’s interesting.

Then a louder and much stronger vibration radiated throughout my body and immediately stopped me in my tracks. I stood there unsure of what to do, or really what to think.

Should I run to the nearest restroom?

Should I wait to see what happens?

Maybe if I embrace what might happen next, it won’t be so horrifying.

Then there was silence. An eerie type of silence that provides a very false sense of security. But you know what? I accepted that eerie silence because I was scared. I fear the day that I lose all bodily control.

Ah, I’m okay. Just a belly burp, I guess.

Later that night I felt the onset of a familiar and unwelcome old friend: nausea. It gradually crept up from my stomach and reached all corners of my body; the spinning, the horrible taste in the back of my mouth, the tuna was coming back to me! To say that I was nauseous would be an understatement because I could not even blink without the threat of regurgitating everything I ate all over the floor. It seemed like every movement was going to be the last blow.

As I lay on the couch hardly able to move, Saad (my husband) nonchalantly suggested “Why don’t you just throw it up?”

“Because….just because.”

“Well you’re going to keep suffering if you don’t get it out of your stomach.”

“I’m scared” I whispered.

“You’re what?” He insisted.

“SCARED. I AM SCARED OF THROWING UP.”

Now, look, I’m can be a big girl when it comes to things that happen to (or within) my body. I don’t get bound up in a ball of anxiety or freak out when I’m stuck with a needle or probed for a vein. In fact I get nervous if I don’t a) see the needle and b) see it pierce my skin, so I look the entire time. And I’ve given a presentation while butt was a second away from #2-ing all over myself because of diaherria. heh, TMI?

So I can handle it, whatever it is.

But vomiting? No. Just no. Everything from the dry-heaving right before it happens to the feeling of undigested and partly digested food flowing the wrong way through your throat and out of your mouth with the force of a fire hydrant is unbearable to me. I’d rather eat my own baby’s puke than puke myself.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Saad asked.

“No, I guess just let me die in peace?”

He said “I’ll be back in a few minutes, if you have to…you know…then at least spare Aiman’s play area” as he picked up his keys and walked out of the door.

In the ten minutes he was gone AND LEFT ME TO DIE ALONE I thought happy, non-messy, non-foodie thoughts while drifting in and out of a nausea induced coma. He returned with a small bag and in it was the most beautifully bright pink bottle of miracle fluid.

Oh, sweet little bottle of Pepto Bismol…you. are.sooooo.beautifullll…..to.meeee.

I would’ve cried if I could even blink without having to hold my mouth shut to keep the contents of my stomach, in my stomach.

He poured the dosage and handed it to me. After taking it, I kid you not, I was better as soon as I swallowed the last thick drop and have been back to normal until this very day.

So I feel victorious having diverted what seemed like an inevitable doom. You do not understand how happy I am to have not puked, given that the whole day -the whooooole day- my stomach was threatening to do just that and how much anxiety it was giving me.

Currently the score is:

Amira- 1                Vomit-0

and I hope it stays “zero” on that side, for like, THE REST OF MY LIFE!