That Right There’s The Ill Par Na

Severely Delayed Post…

Part I: Sicks on a Plane

I achieved one of my new goals! It’s so new I didn’t even know it was one of my goals until after I accomplished it. I got sicks on a plane! I say sicks because there were two incidents of sickness: A) the faint, could also say the FEINT because my body was doing a fake out/build up to get to B) the throw up.

If someone was interviewing me after the incident, which THEY WERE, but I will get to that, I would say YEAH I WAS SCARED. YEAH I WAS EMBARRASSED. YEAH I AM A DIFFERENT PERSON NOW THAN I WAS BEFORE.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So yes, I took a late evening flight as we’re all wont to do from time to time. And can I just tell you how indulgent the airport feels when you take the red eye? Nobody is ANYWHERE in that maze of gates and terminals. The security line was leisurely. I felt like I got some real personal attention and TLC during my full body scan as opposed to cold rigid protocol. Nobody is rushing you. Sure, one bin for each shoe, you guys deserve it! In fact, one bin for everyone on the house. I’m feeling generous.

This guy always flys the red eyes

photo courtesy of ChR!s H@rR!0t and Flickr

And miracle upon miracles, there were some eateries open for me to slop down some dinner. In fact, I could take up the entire restaurant and read a paper with day-old news and nobody was judging me for it.

Here’s what transpired in my digestive system after that unbeknownst to me. I had some bad soup. Who has bad soup? I do, and I am not afraid of your skepticism. I didn’t know bad soup was possible either, but the guy who served it to me (and I hate to typecast, but if this is a movie, I’m not casting against type, not when my health is at stake), well, he looked like someone who would not be afraid to spit in someone’s soup, given the right set of circumstances. But honestly, deep down, I don’t think he spit in my soup. I think I forgot to ask if the soup was vegetarian. It was called “Veggie” but maybe it was made with chicken stock or beef stock or even worse, stock images of soup.

Stock image of soup
photo courtesy of Wiki-wikipedia

It was also boiling hot; you don’t think food poisoning when you think boiling hot. My tongue quickly took on that sandpaper feel associated with charred tastebuds. Yarfing was the last thing on my mind. In fact, I dare say I enjoyed the soup. I did have some tenderness around my eye, which I should have heeded. My eyes are like an old person’s bones. They tend to act up when my body is trying to warn me of something. They are the gatepeepers.

So I got on my plane, no big whoopsie daisy. Settled down for my nice cross-country nap. EXCEPT UH OH. After trying my hand at the crossword and then settling in, someone woke up with a nice feverish feeling, broke out in a sweat, and then had the urge to hurl. Hint: It was me. So I stood up decisively to take care of matters. Picked a direction and walked confidently in it. I got to the end and realized I was at the food cart station. The next thing I remember a woman was asking me, “Honey, are you looking for the bathroom?” and I opened my eyes and I was on the floor, all Victorian lass in need with a flight attendant waving salted peanuts and pretzels under my nose to revive me.

Then I threw up! But in a bag, which was handed to me in the nick of time. Who likes throwing up in the aisle between two rows of first class passengers and is too ashamed to identify herself with thumbs? THIS GURL. I sat there for awhile while the flight attendants ployed me with cold cloths and sips of water. I was asked my name and some other trivia questions. Finally, when enough time had passed, they asked if I was ready to go back to my seat. Barf bag in hand of course.

Talk about a walk of shame. Luckily most of the passengers were asleep as it was early enough in the morning that I still had some dignity. And my seatmates did not ostracize me as I feared, or recoil at the sight of the oxygen tank I was given. I misjudged you, elderly couple! Your sense of character leaves me dry heaving, but for different reasons.

This guy knows what I’m barfin’ about!
photo courtesy of ellenm1 and Flickr

PART II: Hail Nancy Fulla Grace

After the plane landed in Indianapolis and everyone else got off, 10 medics rushed on board to give me the once over. They were so nice that I didn’t have it in my heart to tell them that I was feeling relatively OK. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I was. I didn’t know if I was about to explode with the Ebola virus and start bleeding out of my ears and eyes. I was kinda feelin’ in the Hot Zone. I got asked more trivia questions (“Who is the President? What is the date?”) because I had hit my head. They took my blood pressure, blood sugar, and my address. Whoo, saucy! I probably would have given out my pin code given how vulnerable I was feeling. They were all very nice and all wearing Volunteer EMT sweatshirts. Oh, to be in a helping profession.

They told me going to the hospital would probably be a waste if I just had some sort of bug, but I shouldn’t get on my next plane if I had any doubts.

Here were my main doubts. When I got off the plane, another nice man told me I didn’t have to get on my next flight, even though I was feeling OKaaaay. Everyone was concerned about me. Then I called my mom from the family bathroom (YESsSs, only one toilet, YEssssSss, some privacy) and then I threw up the rest of my soup.

I hate throwing up. I don’t do it often. In fact, I hadn’t thrown up for at least 10 years so I try to save it for special occasions. But you know how after you throw up, you feel great. You feel like it’s time to go follow your dreams because your body feels so unburdened.
So after the rest of the soup was expunged, I knew what I had to do. Try to change my flight or just talk to someone and tell them how free I was feeling!!! I walked with a sense of purpose from this point on. First I called my MOM again to update her on the situation. It was too early in the morning to be asking for a WebMD version of Phone-a-Parent, but my Dad weighed in as well. He said “Get on that flight!”

Here’s what tipped me off. When I got to my gate to talk to the airport lady about my changing flight options, she was throwing up in the trash can. I didn’t know this because she just looked like she was bent down getting something out from a drawer, but when I told her, “Excuse me, I am feeling sick, and am not sure whether to get on my flight,” she pronounced, “I’M FEELING SICK!” and then ran past me to the bathroom. Decision made.

If I stayed, it was Outbreak all over again minus the commercial breaks. I got on the plane and I willed my stomach into submission. Plus I was still holding my barf bag from before JUST IN CASE. Not because I’m sentimental, how dare you.

Anywhooozle I finally got to where I was going. My ride graciously picked me and I told him my pathetic story and then here’s the worst part. When I was finally in my hotel bed thanking the lucky herbal gingko gods, I realized I didn’t have my barf bag with me! I left it either on my second flight or even worse, in my ride’s car. Nothing says gratitude like regurgitation. Well, only if you’re a mother bird.

Lucky for me, the hotel had:

State-of-the-art snoozing facilities


State-of-the-art yarfing facilities

The story has a mostly happy ending. I took a huge nap and then stayed in bed watching Judge Judy and Nancy Grace. Nothing recalibrates your self-pity meter like two roommates in court arguing whether one of them started “drama” or not. Um, ladies, tap, tap, tap, on your brain shoulders, you’re in a real-life courtroom drama. NG was even juicier. A pole dancer was being accused of ruining parties by her employer so she had to demonstrate some moves to prove she was, in fact, good at her job.

PERSPECTIVE ain’t just an art class on drawing sunsets in the distance.

The Honorable Sass Presiding
photo courtesy of fandayou_0088 and Flickr


Private club I spotted on my travels whose membership probably includes Lil’ Jon

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