The Time I Vomited in Megan's Car

(For the Part 1 of this true story, see The Time I Got Hit by a Car.)

As I said, I took that little magic pill of hydrocodone and felt my aches slowly disappear. I also started to get sleepy. Megan drove Celisse and me back to my house, where Celisse -- bless her heart -- drove herself home, and I gathered a few overnight things. Megan was so nice to let me stay with her that night; she knew that getting rest in a house with no air conditioning would be nearly impossible. While gathering a change of clothes and some toiletries, though, I started to feel nauseous. I broke into a cold sweat and felt dizzy. I sat down on the bathroom floor and prepared to throw up. Nothing came. I waited for the nausea to pass. It only took a few minutes before I felt good enough to stand up and move around again, so I grabbed the last of my things and headed out of the apartment and walked to Megan's car.

As soon as Megan started driving, I felt the urge to puke again. Two blocks into our drive, I said in a panic, "Pull over! Pull over!" I hurried out of the car, knelt on the sidewalk of the Conference Center, and tried to throw up in the bushes. Nothing came. I waited for the nausea to pass, and the cool night breeze made me feel a little better.

At that point, a couple of guys in a truck pulled up next to Megan in the other lane. "Are you alright?" one of them asked.
"Yeah."
"Well, it happens to all of us," he said as he smiled and drove away.

I got back into the passenger's seat, and Megan grabbed an old Target bag she had in the trunk. "Here," she said, "Use this if you need to throw up."

As soon as she got onto the Interstate, I felt the nausea come back again, this time with intense force. I closed my eyes and tried to remain calm. I was cold, and sweat was pouring down my face. I tried to keep everything down, but it was no use. I kept a pretty good game face for most of the night, hardly crying at all. Puking into that plastic bag was a real low point, though, and I cried and cried while I threw up and then dry-heaved. I felt better, though. Until the smell of my vomit made me sick all over again.

"Megan, I can't have this in my face anymore!"
"You can put it on the floor in the the back."
"But I don't want to smell it anymore. I can't smell it anymore; it's making me sick!"
"It's okay. You can just put it on the floor."

And then.

I realized there was a small hole in the bottom of the bag. It was slowly leaking onto my lap.

"I can't put it on the floor; it's leaking! It'll get all over the floor!"
"It's okay."
"But I don't want it in my face anymore . . . I can't take it. I have to do it, Megan. I have to . . ."

And with that, I rolled down the window and threw my vomit-filled bag as far away from me as I could.

Megan said she didn't think it hit any other cars.


See what happened next in The Aftermath.


Thing I'm thankful for: Megan's motherly instincts.