Emetophobia

I don't think it's irrational. Seems like a rational fear to me.

There's even a word for it: "emetophobia:" the fear of vomit and throwing up. I've had it as long as I can remember. My brother throws up and I spend the night on the couch. My sister throws up and I leave home until she stops. One of my parents throws up, and I'm moving out.

Worse, however, is when the tingling starts. When my own stomach starts doing roiling. When my mouth starts watering and the world starts spinning. I feel it coming and I can't escape from my own body.

I try a variety of tactics. I focus on little swallows, shallow breaths, wiggling my toes. I start negotiating deals with God, praying for it to pass. I lie as still as I can, pretending that I'm not nauseous, pretending that I just need to wait a bit and it will pass.

In fairness, sometimes it works. And sometimes it's Christmas 2003. My brother had the flu all week, but was better in time for Christmas Eve. Nobody else had been sick. We had dodged a bullet.

After our seasonal feast of German steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and butter rolls, we settled in for some board games.

But something wasn't right. The old symptoms were back. My face felt flushed. My throat felt full. The contents of my stomach seemed to be swaying, ponderously, planning their next move.

My family asked if I was feeling okay. I'm fine, I lied. Just need to take a nap.

I held as still as I could on our new leather couches. It would pass. It had to pass. I couldn't be sick on Christmas.

I wasn't sick. I wasn't going to be sick. Everything was fine.

God, please don't let me. Bless me. Work a miracle. Whatever you have to do.

My stomach churned threateningly. My body tensed. Sniff, exhale. Sniff, exhale. Focus on your toes.

It passed. I relaxed.

And then promptly puked what seemed to be everything I'd ever eaten all over myself, the new leather couch, and the heirloom blanket on the couch.

Nothing was fine. Christmas was ruined. My family went into damage control, my dad crying "not the couches," my mom crying "not the blanket," and my siblings sitting in mortified, horrified shock on the floor, still dazedly holding their "Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit" tokens.

It was a Christmas never to be forgotten, for all the wrong reasons. I slept in the bathtub that night. The next morning I was too sick and weak to open presents.

That's it. That's why I'm an emetophobe.

Anything capable of ruining Christmas seems like a rational fear to me.