Mushy
Vomiting comes to me rather easily. I can throw up and then go merrily about my way, stomach empty and queasy feeling vanished. (My friends liken me to a cat in that way. Just: "Blargh!" and the world is better!) While I've had my fair share of vomits in public (after roller coasters, post consuming of funky-smelling leftovers, on the airplane shortly before take off, the first two times meeting my college adviser, any time my mother would scold me before sending me to school, for a week solid after contracting food poisoning from a Caesar Salad), nothing will ever top my two favorite ralphings that share a common thread.

Throughout 2008, I was plagued every-so-often with stabby stabby stomach pains, always at night. I attributed the pain to gas, then lactose intolerance, then maybe a stomach ulcer.

I put off seeing a doctor, as I live across the pond in The Best Country In The Whole Wide World And Don't You Forget It ('merica). My job does not provide health care. If you work a job that doesn't provide health care benefits, chances are you can't afford private insurance. (But that's Somebody Else's Problem, right?)

The stomach pains culminated into the mother-of-all ice-pick-through-the-gut can't-stand-up pains one night about a year ago. I banged on my flatmate's door, literally rolling on the floor (not laughing, but moaning) and begged for a ride to the ER. Couple of hours later, laying in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm as the vampires are off running various tests on my blood, I finally FINALLY was able to throw up. Sweet Jesus and Mary, it was the best feeling ever. I'm betting that a night with a very willing Hugh Laurie can't even feel that glorious.

The vomit was the typical slippery, off-colored mess but with... perfectly-preserved sliced mushrooms from the pizza I'd had for supper. I could have sworn that I chewed those up.

I was nice enough to scoop the vomit mushroom soup out of the hospital's sink and into a biohazard container before passing out on the bed. (In retrospect, I wish I'd let the bastards do clean up. The stabbing stomach pains remained misdiagnosed until I ended up in another hospital the day after Christmas a few weeks later. Organ failure is a bitch!)

Better that that incident, however, was a car trip with my man-child of a stepfather. I was but a small girl, and the-Scum-of-the-Earth, myself, and my mother had almost reached our destination of a three-hour journey. And it hits me. That tightening of the tongue, the bitter, sickening flooding of adrenaline in the mouth. Before I could even complain about the feeling or request an immediate rest break, I was transformed into a geyser. The windshield was my target.

So what was the culprit behind the ruin of what had been a perfectly fine car trip? Mushrooms. Sliced. From a meal that I'd had almost 24 hours before.

I still fucking love mushrooms.

Apologies for length, of course. Mine is only three inches*




*from the ground
(TrillionGrams, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 9:11, Reply)