This should have been the first clue that my body would rebel and ruin it, because the stomach flu always finds me. Particularly when I have good plans. Most notably, when Darling Husband and I rented a hotel room to celebrate an anniversary and I THREW UP ALL DAMN NIGHT.
Who’s the girl who fainted in Victoria’s Secret and then yakked in the food court? *raises hand in shame* 😖— Heather Laura Clarke (@HFXHeather) June 28, 2016
(I have a long history of embarrassing throw-ups, including on a NYC subway.) I blame my daughter who upchucked at the mall on Friday 😣— Heather Laura Clarke (@HFXHeather) June 28, 2016
Uh-huh. You read that right.
I was happily bra-shopping with L, about to pay for my two new bolder-holders (pebble-pockets?) when I started to feel unwell. I'd been a little iffy leading up to then -- slight tingly stomach -- but I didn't think it was anything. But when the sweat started rolling down my face and I felt like the only thing in the WORLD I needed was to sit down, I weakly told the employee I felt faint and needed to sit.
I sat. (On a leather bench thing where she'd hastily brushed the bras to one side.)
This is nothing new for me, as I have low blood pressure and low blood sugar, but it doesn't usually happen in public. I texted Darling Husband simply "Fainting" (I'm dramatic even when partially conscious) and hung my head between my knees but I wasn't feeling any better. An employee brought me a bottle of ice water and told me to put it on the back of my neck. I did.
Then I slithered down to the floor, gratefully, to lie on that smooth fake wood with my head resting on the little shrug/sweater thing I'd sewed the night before. I started feeling better right away. L found me and ran to buy juice. I was able to stand back up and totter back to a dressing room where I sat on a bench and promised not to pass out.
L brought me two juice options and I drank one, but I still didn't really feel better. Darling Husband had been out driving around, doing his own shopping, and he'd coincidental been on his way back to the mall when he got my one-word text, so he was there shortly after. He paid for my bras while I sat on a couch outside the store, and then the three of us went to the food court.
I needed something to eat. That was the verdict. Oh, and a regular Coke for more sugar. Surely that would help.
I ate two bites of poutine and had a couple of slurps of way-too-syrupy regular Coke when I started sweating again. I felt faint. I remembered how good it had felt to lie down on the floor of the damn bra store, so I begged Darling Husband to let me lie my head on his lap.
(He didn't want to because, duh, it totally looked like ... you know.)
I laid my head on his lap and stared at the legs of the table. Words were swishing all around me. I heard L ask him if I felt like I was going to throw up, and then it clicked. Oh. Shit. Yes. That is exactly what's going to happen OH NO OH NO OH NO.
"Pass me the bag!" I moaned, my head still half-under the table.
L dove for the shopping bag and pulled out my precious new bras. I proceeded to sit up and throw up on the BOTTOM of the bag, which spilled all over my lap, and then flipped the bag over and threw up inside of it again and again.
It. Was. Humiliating.
Darling Husband ran for the car. L helped me outside and I dumped my vomit-y shopping bag in the trash on the way out. He drove me to my mom's apartment 10 minutes away while I emailed my various meetings to cancel and apologize. I showered and dozed in Mom's bed for the rest of the afternoon while she watched the kids (who had been there during VomitGate). We made it home around the kids' bedtime where I was violently sick again.
|Why oh whyyyyyyyyyyy|
And today? This morning when I woke up not feeling much better at all? Another self-employed "sick day" where I did interviews and wrote stories and tried not to die.
Lesson learned: near-fainting experiences are not always blood sugar or blood pressure related. Sometimes they are SIGNS FROM GOD to get your butt to a washroom pronto so you don't embarrass yourself by yakking in a food court.