Emetophobic emeto enjoyer

you click the coffee machine on, already pre-loaded for your usual two cups since yesterday evening. you take the bowl of overnight oats out of the fridge. you eat a few spoonfuls while waiting for the coffee but something about it tastes wrong. maybe the yogurt you used was off. you didn't think so, but either way, the thought of finishing the bowl turns your stomach so you throw it away and just drink your coffee with some crackers.

it's 7:24 and just a bit over 1,5 hours before your work day officially starts, you're grumpy, disappointed with your breakfast and the general state of the world this morning so you decide to go back to bed until it's work time.

you close your eyes and suddenly it's 9:48 and you wake up to three missed calls from your manager and a long enough rant on whatsapp that it makes your eyes glaze over trying to read it. "sorry," you type in a reply, "missed my alarm. fever. going back to sleep." you're not actually sure you have a fever but you're starting to accept that something's not right, and the way you're starting to feel shivery makes it a fair bet that fever is not far off. the thought of going to the bathroom to find the thermometer feels like a herculean task, so you just mute notifications on your phone and curl up tighter under the duvet.

you try to fall asleep again but the room keeps spinning in lazzy, sickening circles around you and it gets worse every time you're about to drift off. the cats have positioned themselves around you, one in the crook of your knees, one next to your belly, one on the pillow behind your head. usually you don't mind them in your bed--and good luck keeping cats out of bed anyway--but now the purring warmth pressing against your stomach is making you aware of a vague, formless sense of dread that isn't quite nausea yet but you can imagine by now that it's headed that way.

it's 10:37 when you give up on trying to sleep and relocate to the couch. the cats happily occupy the space you left behind.

you arm yourself with supplies. blanket and pillows, bottled water, ginger mints, a box of tissues. trash can, though you hate puking in anything but the toilet, because you have to clean it up yourself anyway. by now you're definitely feeling queasy, and when you tug the waistband of your yoga pants down a little to ease the pressure on your stomach, you're surprised to see how bloated you've become.

you settle in to read a little but you can't focus on the words on the screen of your e-reader. your stomach is giving the occasional ominous gurgle, and as you press your hand lightly against it, you can feel the movement under your palm. you give up on reading and just close your eyes, your heart beating fast and your breath coming in quick and shallow.

it's shortly before noon that the burps start. you cover your mouth as a tiny bubble of air forces its way up, silent and acidic and bringing little relief. you take a sip of water to rid yourself of the taste, and immediately regret it as the next burp brings the water bubbling up the back of your throat, not all the way into your mouth but too close for comfort. you swallow it back down, torn between resignation and denial that this is how it's going to be.

you spend the next thirty minutes or so fighting the inevitable, shifting every so often to find a position that might feel better but there isn't one. the pitifully small sip of water feels cool in the back of your throat with every increasingly wet burp, and the coffee and the few spoonfuls of oatmeal you had for breakfast seem to have turned into a rancid mess of sick in your bloated belly.

the shift from anxiety to inevitability is so subtle you could almost miss it if the inevitability itself wasn't so overwhelming. you body shifts gears from 'oh god am i going to be sick?' to 'okay, i'm going to be sick' and suddenly you're not anxious anymore. you get up and make your way to the bathroom because you do hate having to rinse the trash can after vomiting. you walk a little hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, one hand cradling your middle and the other hovering over your mouth as if it's going to stop the inevitable.

you kneel in front of the toilet, thankful for the soft bath mat cushioning your knees from the cold tile floor. you shiver as you lean over the toilet bowl. your breath hitches as your stomach lurches in a weak false start. an especially foul burp works its way out, and for a ludicrous second you feel the relief and think maybe that was it, maybe you're not going to, after all...

the dry heave that clenches your core immediately proves such thoughts wrong. you're gripping the toilet seat with both hands, trembling and breathing too fast. thick saliva drips from your open mouth into the clear water below. just as you're thinking about how gross it looks, the next heave seizes your body. this time a small trickle of your stomach contents surges up your throat, burning every inch of the way and tasting absolutely vile. you spit, but almost before you can prepare yourself, your stomach heaves again.

and again.

and again, and finally a more substantial amount of the vile sludge that used to be coffee and oats comes up and splashes into the toilet with a force. you draw a shuddering breath, catch a glimpse of something that looks uncomfortably like undigested oats in the no-longer-clear water, and then you're heaving again.

you're not sure how long it lasted--probably not as long as it felt like, your rational brain feels the need to point out--but finally you sit back on your haunches, trembling, wiping tears of excertion from your eyes and wishing you had the foresight to bring the water bottle with you. your throat is burning, your sinuses are burning, and your stomach doesn't feel much emptier than it was before.

you may be done for now, but you're not done.

you spit some more, blow your nose for what good it does. you get up on shaking legs, flush the toilet. wash your hands and face before making your way back to the couch. you walk slightly hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, yet the motion of your careful steps makes your remaining stomach contents slosh and swirl uncomfortably.