Down In It

Hey you.  Are you offended by disgusto-talk?  If you are easily grossed out, you might want to skip this bad boy.  Consider yourself warned.

I'm just going to go ahead and apologize for the weak-sauce post from yesterday.  I haven't been able to write because I've been busy obsessing over the events of two Fridays ago.  Not until now have I had the courage to write what actually happened. 

The evening started benignly enough.  I rode my bike home and was cooling off on the couch when Reyna got home.  We agreed that we would swing by our friend's house to say hello before a quiet Friday evening dinner at Pendolasco.  As we sat in our friend's kitchen and drank a beer, I noticed that the beer tasted funny and I felt uncomfortably hot.  I dismissed it by telling myself that I was still hot from riding my bike home; plus I was hungry from having only a small sandwich for lunch and nothing else to eat.

Soon we adjourned to their rooftop terrace to take in the night air.  I noticed my legs felt dead as we journeyed up the five flights of stairs to their roof.  I sat in my chair for about 90 seconds when it hit.  I raced back down the stairs and destroyed our dear friends' bathroom.  This was made all the more uncomfortable as I could plainly hear their conversation above me.  I silently prayed they couldn't hear the tidal wave ushering forth from my backside.  I stood up, sweating and noticed that the level in the bowl had risen considerably.  I then tried to force down the thought that plumbing in SE Asia is not what we call "reliable" and hit the flusher.  It went down.

I returned to the terrace, but now my heart was racing and I felt the panic setting in.  I turned to Reyna and shakily said, "I think I need to go home and lie down.  I'm really not feeling well...."

"Yeah you don't look too good."  Said one of our friends.

Reyna agreed, though I felt bad for rushing us out on a Friday night.  I set a brisk pace for the journey home and just made it in time for round two.

I took a cold shower then got in bed with the air conditioner on full tilt to try and cool down.  I was feeling better after an hour, and Reyna had ordered dinner, so I ventured downstairs.  I only made halfway before I collapsed on the couch feeling awful again.  30 seconds later I raced back up the stairs and started throwing up.

Why am I telling you this?  Why is this notable?  June 8, 2012 marked the first time I had vomited in over 20 years.  I think I was in sixth grade the last time it happened.  In the intervening years I've had tens of thousands of drinks and kept every one of them inside me, at least for an appropriate amount of time.  Even excessive amounts of alcohol had only left my body through "approved" channels. 

And though those 20+ years I'd developed a persistent and growing anxiety over throwing up.  At first I was ashamed.  I lived with my secret fear for years before I finally admitted it to a girlfriend.  I was out of college when I "came out."   The anxiety kept me from doing things.  I'd get worked up over travel because I'd worry about getting sick on the plane, or cause some sort of disgusting scene.  When we moved to Vietnam, I was more scared at the thought of doing things that would make me throw up than anything else.  And yes, I realize how ridiculous and crazy that sounds.

Reyna was wonderful through the whole thing.  Her response was to wet a washcloth and put it on the back of my neck.  I think she realized the gravity of the situation and responded with her usual aplomb.  Two things came to mind: (1.) I thought about how it had been so long since I'd been sick like this that I'd had no idea how to lovingly respond to her in the times she'd been sick.  I generally resort to the hide-in-a-far-off-room-and-yell-"are-you-okay"-technique.  Hers was more effective.  The fact that she could keep it together while I made the most horrifying sound of my life was commendable. (2.) I thought, "this is what it tastes like when you puke from too many beers."  I was only about 15 years later than most to learn this fact.

I was surprised to find that I felt better after the episode.   I was on the couch sipping water and watching television while Reyna worked shortly thereafter.  Only occasionally adjourning to the bathroom to handle the other end, which was still going strong.  Soon Reyna was asleep and I contentedly watched the first match of the Euros with her breathing quietly in the background.

And then I shit my pants.

Now since we moved to Vietnam I've prided myself on two things as a man. 

1. I don't shun Reyna in an effort to bang Vietnamese girls
2. I don't shit my pants.*

*Seriously... Every guy I know has an I-thought-it-was-a-fart story or ten.  I enjoyed my status as the guy who can tell when he's going to fart and when the fart has company.  If it's questionable, best to do it over the proper receptacle.  Learn it, know it, live it.

Thankfully Reyna was asleep as I gingerly climbed the stairs and got into the shower after plopping onto the toilet to finish what I'd started downstairs.  We have no towel racks, so I hung my soiled shorts (I wasn't wearing underwear...sue me, it's hot here) on the edge of the tub.  While washing them I'd noted how my expurgation would have made a perfect "gruel" prop in a Holocaust film or a production of Oliver.

Embarrassed I went back to the couch.  As I was situating myself I woke Reyna up.  I didn't mention the events of the previous five minutes.  Just exchanged pleasantries as she went upstairs.  I watched the game with my shame lying quietly next to me.  Soon I was drifting off to sleep. 

Drifting off to sleep apparently triggers full body relaxation because I was jolted from my reverie by my own leaking ass.

After almost 36 years on this green earth without a pants-shitting since single digit years, I managed to do it twice in the span of a single football match.

This time when I leaped up I saw, to my horror, that I'd left a silver dollar sized spot on the couch.  Not just any couch, mind you, but the month old couch that only one week before had been almost destroyed when it rained in our living room.  The couch that had replaced the one the cats ruined when we left them home alone for a weekend.  We never could get the stink off piss off it.  This was a new and puzzling dilemma.  Which to handle first?  I decided to put my own needs before that of a piece of furniture.  I ran upstairs and took care of business, thus creating a posse of unfortunate shorts on the edge of the bath tub.  I then had to go down two floors to get cleaning supplies for the couch.  After four hours of illness, this was harder than expected.  I cleaned up as best I could while silently praying there wouldn't be a stain.  I put a towel beneath my not-to-be-trusted midsection and watched the end of the match.

When I finally decided I was done exploding, I put a towel down on my side of the bed and went to sleep.  Needless to say, Reyna was filled with questions when she awoke the next morning to find me asleep on a towel and a line of damp shorts hanging over the side of the bath tub.

I tell you this not to disgust, but in the hope that by talking about it publicly I can put my irrational phobia to rest once and for all.  I told a few people my sad tale and they thought it was hilarious*, so I figured here was as good a place as any to make my confession.  So perhaps one day I'll be able to see it as something that isn't so awful.  Something to not be feared.  Reyna said it pretty succinctly a few days later, "throwing up is part of being a human."  Very true.  I still don't know what caused it, so I can't know what to avoid in the future to keep it from happening again.  I'm pretty sure that's a good thing.

*I'm not entirely sure what this says about my friends, but whatever, they're still my friends.  Also a big step.  When you're barfing people won't automatically be disgusted by you when you aren't sick later.  Silly thought, yes, but one that I worried over.

I wrote everything up to this point last night.  Since then I've felt the urge to hurl.  So I'm not sure if this experience has broken the curse or not, but I'm choosing to believe it's a baby step.