It all started when I was just nine years old.
I was invited to the birthday sleepover at the house of the coolest girl in my third grade class. I knew her parents were well off, but to a nine year old “well off” means her house probably has stairs. But no, this house — three stories, a marble entryway and a TV in her room. She even had one of those early 2000s fuzzy, cord phones, like the one in that Taylor Swift music video.
Seeing as it was a birthday, there was no shortage of food. Her dad made spaghetti with meatballs for dinner, plus garlic bread, both of which I shovelled into my mouth in a less than polite manner.
And for dessert — brownies and cupcakes. For context, it’s important to point out that I have absolutely zero self control, so if you put sweets in front of me, I will eat them.
Not even an hour after the tangy marinara sauce passed through my oesophagus, I felt immediate pain.
Not pain like, ‘Ow, my tum tum hurts.’ No, a severe, sharp ache that felt like a small animal was crawling its way back up my throat.
I remember trying to partake in the other birthday activities, but everything became a blur. Time seemed to stand still and the only thoughts coursing through my young mind were those about the unrelenting pain in my stomach.
At some point, the birthday girl’s mum must have noticed the zombie that I’d become and took pity on me, so I called my mum. For twenty excruciating minutes I waited.
The second I heard my mom’s car pull into the driveway, I darted outside, practically shutting the door on her as I urged her to stay in the car so we could high tail it out of there. Unfortunately, time was not of the essence for my mother. There was the obligatory “thanks for watching my kid” show of gratitude, during which my stomach was absolutely screaming.
Two minutes into their small talk, I could taste that indescribable liquid flavour that you get in your mouth when nausea hits. I knew the puke was coming. I was practically pleading with my mom in my mind for her to hurry up, but then the birthday girl’s mom invited her outside to say bye to me. I felt it coming before I could stop it. Next thing I knew, my friend, her mom and my mom all watched in utter horror as I leaned over and projectile vomited all over the driveway. A lot.
And if you’re thinking, it can only go up from there. You’d sadly be wrong.
It then took six more years, hundreds of doctor visits, specialists, puking episodes (and shameful apologies) for my diagnosis: severe reflux.
Not to be confused with acid reflux, the more common sister that causes acidic juices to be released back into the chest throat, causing heartburn. No, mine was reflux, meaning that the little flap (oesophageal sphincter) that’s supposed to stop food from coming back into your throat was open 24/7. It was just letting all my chewed food parade back into my throat, frequently causing nausea and vomiting.
And when I say ‘vomiting,’ I don’t mean like a cute little ‘bleh’ and some bile comes out. No, I mean like knee shaking, veins popping, mouth as wide as a snake, puking. The kind of puking that empties any ounce of substance that might have been in your stomach, and your jaw expands so wide that it opens a portal to another dimension.
Throughout elementary school, they thought my constant coughing was a tic, some sort of habitual urge I couldn’t resist. In reality, it was a response to the acid and occasional food that kept regurgitating back up my esophagus (hot, I know). The next guess was allergies.
Finally, when I was 15, I was referred to a doctor in Birmingham, Alabama. Alas, I had my diagnosis, as well as a long list of foods and drinks I was no longer supposed to eat: orange juice, marinara, tomato sauce, spicy foods, fried foods, caffeine, sodas, too many sweets — basically anything delicious was a no.
However, since I have never been one to turn down something tasty, thus began a series of sleepless nights, vomiting episodes and embarrassing clean-ups.
There was “the night of seven times,” which sounds like a sexy episode of ‘Friends’ but was actually during a college spring break one year when my friend suggested I wash down a few Vodka shots with brownies.
There was the time my brother and I shared a hotel room in Peru and I was fighting for my life in the bathroom for hours while he peacefully snored right through it.
There was the most recent time, when I was staying at a friend’s house after her birthday (yes, I’d broken the rule of drinking and having spicy foods) when I awoke suddenly at 3am, rushed to the bathroom and vomited multiple times, all while her hairless cat Galileo watched curiously from the tub.
But probably one of the worst times was in my parents’ house, when I was home for a weekend from college my freshman or sophomore year. I had broken a lot of rules that day; chile rellenos, salsa, coffee cake, coffee.
As usual, I was awakened in the middle of the night by a searing pain in my stomach, only this one was somehow worse. The pain was so bad I could barely get up, but eventually, the irrational fear I have of choking on my own vomit in my sleep won out.
I was panting and sweating in that bathroom, vomiting, crying, vomiting again. Every time I thought the worst was over, I’d throw up a bit more. You know the kind of puking that’s so bad you start peeling off layers of clothes? That’s where I was at. After a few more rounds, my stomach decided to go for the big finale.
I guess I must have been making more noise than I realised because suddenly, just as the strength of the puke forced my body to crane over, my poor, unsuspecting mother burst into the bathroom as not only vomit shot from my mouth, but diarrhoea shot from my rear, simultaneously. The force of the straining on my internal muscles caused a lot more to happen than I intended. Naturally, we were both horrified.
Doctors have assured me that in order to prevent an incident like the one described above from happening again, I will most likely need surgery to tighten the lower oesophageal sphincter, to keep it from releasing so much food and acid. But for now, treatment options are mostly Prilosec and avoiding foods that cause the stomach to produce high amounts of acid (i.e. fried, spicy, sweet foods).
If you take anything away from this tale, let it be one of warning: listen to doctors’ advice. Expelling liquids out of your body in front of your loved ones is never fun. And to the future friends, whose houses I will inevitably puke at: I’m sorry in advance.