The Curse of the Phobia

It had been at least five months since Macy had thrown up and I knew we were due. I could feel it looming in the near distance like a hideous beast, a hideous beast bent over the toilet. I have a vomit radar, if you will, and no later than a week before the dreaded event, I begin to sense what is coming.

Sure enough, early, early Sunday morning, it happens. I did my best to do the mom thing, hold the hair back, get the bucket, make up the bed on the couch, and go back to sleep on the family room floor within sight of the inferm, but at a safe distance. However, inside, I was crying for my mom.

I made it through Sunday as best I could. I couldn't stay home and nurse my fears, although that is exactly what I wanted to do, because it was our last practice for the program, and the control freak in me was not about to hand it over to someone who didn't have a clue.

And then I commited the cardinal sin.

I took Macy to church. Now before you judge me and condemn me to a fiery death, you have to know that she threw up at like, 4 in the morning and was instantly laughing, talking, totally normal. She was playing, running around all day until church, and I was going to leave her home except that she HAD to know where to go on the stand to sing her special number in the program or she would be totally clueless the following Sunday. Besides, the emetaphobe inside me had me convinced it wasn't anything contagious, just a fluke thing.

Okay, I know. I'm a big fat hypocrite and the guilt I felt was tremendous, but, what are you gonna do?

So the next two days were filled with me trying to talk to myself that I wasn't going to get it, waiting for the darn incubation period to be over. I put on my happy face, I kept myself busy, but even Bill could see right through me. He'd look at me suddenly and say, "You're totally freaking out right now, aren't you?" Caught red-handed.

Finally, Tuesday morning came like the beautiful dawn of a glorious day. My stomach untied itself from the double-knots it had been busing tying the last two days. I relaxed, I genuinely smiled, and I got back to life. Oh, to be done with it. No more obsessing, no more worrying, no more stomach made of jello (at least not on the inside.) I was free from all of it for at least a while, if I was lucky, a good few months.

Tuesday night I lay in bed, happy with the world, savoring every vomit-free moment, when Macy walked in.

"Mommy, my tummy feels yucky again."

Put on the smile, get the bucket, make up the bed on the couch.

Here goes round two.