stomach self-pumping.

A warning to those with weak stomachs: this entry is all about vomit.

Monday night was really the first time I'd ever been sick by myself. I've lied half-dead in bed alone during the day and I've certainly had my share of rotten colds, but I've never been all-out sick and alone. No boyfriend, no roommates, most importantly no mother.

I know some people who relish being alone when they are sick. Granted, most of these people have children. But some people just like it anyway. This is not my family's way of being sick. We got blankets, juice, pats on the head, sodas, and best of all, sympathy. We didn't have to do anything to take care of ourselves, or anything at all. Our job was to be miserable. This is not to say that we were smothered. Unless we wanted to be smothered, and then we most graciously were.

We had a vomit pan. I'd always kinda figured that this was universal, that every family had a vomit pan. I've come to realize that more and more things that my family did are not universal. Casey was completely appalled at the idea of a vomit pan. Particularly when I told him that it was a regular pan that we also used for cooking. I mean, really, we washed it.

It was always the same pan. My mom has a set of pans, I think, because they're all kinda the same, but different sizes. The vomit pan was chosen as such because it was just the right size to be sure and not miss, but without being cumbersome. And if you ever threw up more than the vomit pan could contain, then you had more problems than just a mess on your hands. The vomit pan had a dent in the bottom, about the size of a quarter.

When I'm well, I can still stick my face close to that pan and feel a little queasy.

The most miserable part of Monday evening was that after I'd emptied the contents of my stomach into the pan, I had to go empty it myself and then get my own drink of water. It was insult to injury. It was in the middle of the night, so I couldn't really call home and get some sympathy and then allow my mom to offer to come take care of me, which I would refuse to let her do. No one even called me a poor sweet baby.

My life is so hard.

And then I went home and was sick again. (Go ahead, ask me how Christmas dinner was.) But this time, I did it in style. It was the middle of the night, and I was staring at the dent in the vomit pan, wondering if my stomach was actually going to follow throw with its threats to hurl. And then a new worry entered my mind: what if Mama didn't hear?

My mom used to wake up at the slightest noise. If a kid threw up in the night, she woke up and came running. She woke up when we got up and got a drink of water, she woke up when we came in from being out with friends. It might be a mother thing. But lately, she's been sleeping more heavily or something. Maybe Daddy's snores drown the other noises out, in which case, if the fire alarm ever goes off, they are in trouble. She no longer woke up when I came in from being out, and I wondered the other night if she would wake up when her poor sweet baby was sick.

And then I finally did throw up, and I heard the sweet, sweet sound of my dad's tie rack banging on my parents' bedroom door as it was opened quickly followed by stockinged footsteps. And when I was done, I laid back and waited to die while my mother emptied the pan, got me a drink of water, and patted me on the head.

If one has to get sick, this is the way to do it. I just wonder how old I have to get before I can't get away with this anymore. I'm going to have a hard time selling Casey on the idea of keeping a designated vomit pan around, even if I promised never to cook with it. Could I train my children to do this?

And now you know why I haven't written in a week. I wrote most of this in my head as it hovered over a pan with a dent in the bottom. Now don't you feel bad about all the threatening phone calls?