Secrets of Keeping My Lunch

I don’t have many original thoughts, so I tend to rely on other blogs for inspiration. My friend Mandy mentioned the travails of her son Jagger who had trouble keeping his steak and Gatorade down. I mentioned that I refuse to lose my lunch. She asked for my secret. Here goes—

In a nutshell, I don’t throw up because it scares me. I would rather endure a 72-hour nausea episode than endure a vomiting episode. This leads me to wax poetic.

I would rather be under a nuke
Than puke
I’d rather tease a group of skunks
Than blow chunks
I’d rather attend church in a dress and scarf
Than barf
(See if you can fill in the blanks from here on)
I’d rather be in the path of a crashing comet
Than _____
I’d rather go to Denmark and become a girl
Than ____ (4 letters, starts with “h”)
I’d rather give Jan the credit card and say, “splurge”
Than _____


I think you get my drift. For example, all of us are fearful of one day being diagnosed with cancer. For me, the worst part of that would be the prospect of the side effects of chemotherapy. If I accidently ate spoiled fish (another reason to avoid sushi) and had to drink ipecac to save my life, I would peacefully await death.

The last time I remember “failing” in my resolve, we lived in an apartment in Garden Grove, so that would have been around 1975. Of course, since I wait so long to upchuck (couldn’t thing of a rhyme for that one), it REALLY REALLY hurts when I finally do. Which makes me strengthen my resolve to make sure it never happens again. Which makes it worse when it finally does. IT”S A VICIOUS CYCLE. So when nausea sets in, what do I do? Thinking, “who will rescue me from this body of death,” I pray that it doesn’t end with an episode that feeds my regurgitaphobia. And for over 30 years, that prayer has been answered—(that’s what I REALLY mean when I tell people I feel like the poster boy for answered prayer).

So, in my lexicon, the worst disease in the world is bulimia. The thought that someone would commit that desecration ON PURPOSE is unthinkable to me. When we were first married, I was riding to San Diego with an uncle and Jan’s dad. All of a sudden, Jan’s Dad said, “pull over.” And right there, on the 5 freeway, he stuck his finger down his throat and self-pumped his stomach. I didn’t know him well enough yet to tell him what I was thinking, which was, “What evil supernatural creature spawned you?”

So, for future reference, if I say, “That’s enough to make me puke,” you’ll know I’m really upset with you.