I'm not, like, the pukiest person in the world, but I do get ill with enough frequency that I SHOULD know that I will, in fact, continue living a comfortable life after a vomiting episode. But I don't. Honestly, I probably need some sort of sensei to teach me self-control in those situations.
Sloan is now used to this type of behavior after enduring many early frightening episodes where I screamed like a banshee and "was reaching for the light" after a night out eating sketchy Mexican food.
Annnnnnd after about a 2 month dry spell, Sunday reminded me of what it felt like to pray for a quick death. I felt semi-sick all morning, but Sloan assumed I was faking to get out of church. He apprehensively stayed home with me as I took about 4 baths to try and feel better. I was lying on the bed when the dry heaving began. Sloan was in the living room.
Julia: MOOOOOOOAN AGGGGGGGGGH
Sloan: Baby? You need to go back into the bathroom, don't you think?
Julia: HELPMEJESUS GGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAA
Sloan: Honey, do you need-
Julia: BLARGH *splat*
Sloan comes into our room to find me sweaty and face-planted in my dark red vomit (thanks, Kool-Aid, for keeping your sense of humor about things). He carries me, delirious and clawing at the air, to the bathroom to lie on the floor. Little man then strips the bedding and puts it in the washer, all while I lay on the ground groaning like a downed soldier.
It was the worst experience of my life. But I say that every time. I didn't throw up anymore that day, but that meager cup's worth sure went the distance for me by making me sound like an idiot and staining our mattress permanently. And what did I learn from this? NOTHING. I will be just as bonkers the next time. JUST AS BONKERS.