99 Problems and the Shits are 1: Leaving on a Jet Plane

I've got to set the stage a bit. There I am, five months into the new job, enjoying myself, living a well-balanced and healthy lifestyle. This is the TP, the turning point in my struggle with IBS and the beginning of the road that leads to an official diagnosis.

May 20, 2009 - 10:00 pm
I return home, triumphant from a victorious company softball game and a pleasant dinner out with my teammates. We ate at [unnamed iconic pizza joint in Princeton] and I ordered the meatball sub (6 inch, no cheese.) By this point, I have been seriously running since March - I've decided if my boyfriend can run marathons, so can I. I am in great shape, I'm building mileage slowly and steadily and I've been eating really clean, really well. I figured, ok...no healthy options on this menu so at least I can get the sub and not eat the bread - just the balls. Right? WRONG. So, so wrong.

The gurgles start around bedtime but I drink some water, think nothing of it. I wake up and I have a bit of the runs - fabulous. Oh well, I've got one-and-a-half days of work left before my vacation to Oregon with my best friend. I push through it. At lunch on May 21 we go to Thai food as a department. It was someone's birthday and a momentous occasion since we rarely dine together outside the office. I decide to be cautious and order some chicken with vegetables in brown sauce, thinking it will be mild on my stomach. Not so much. 3:00 pm rolls around and I am doubled over with pain. I'm cramping, gurgling audibly, farting all over the place and worse, having to run to the bathroom. (I am fond of the word "fart" in all its manifestations. Deal with it.) Then come the acidic, death-in-the-bowels burps. That's a big uh-oh for me because it means I am going to be sick. This is terrible but I stick it out. Only half a day to go! My flight leaves Friday around 6:30 PM so I have to leave work by 3:00 to get to Newark. Too much to do, too much to do...

Friday, May 22
I have been up all night heaving. I am melting, melting! I am going to choke on my own vomit or worse, void my bowels through my rear end. I check the commode each time I release more toxic waste out one end or the other to see if I've left any vital parts in the bowl. Nope. Nothing. Am I sure I did not just pass my intestines through my anus? The force at which the bile is leaving my system could easily rival that of Linda Blair. It is dreadful. But damn it, I have a trip to the West Coast and I am not about to give that up over Memorial Day Weekend. So I lug my suitcase and my heaving bones into my car, drive to work, almost hurl out the window on the way, and make it into the office in one piece.

I am told by several people that day that I look kind of gray. (Gee, thanks. I'll work on that tan in Portland.) When it comes time to leave for the airport, I board the Dinky with trepidation. My half-mile walk across campus has taken a lot of energy out of me and I am full-on nauseous. Oh God. I just might spew on these nice people next to me...I contain it for the six minute shuttle ride to P.J., rush off the car and into the bushes where I dry heave. No one bats an eye, I'm that stealth about it. Then I muster the courage to cross under the tracks to board the Northeast Corridor Line of NJ Transit. No sooner am I in the vestibule of the train that it comes over me. I launch myself onto the handicap row and spread out. The conductor passes through, looks at me, moves on. Clearly I am not some homeless bum. I had the presence of mind to clutch my ticket stub in my limp hand, J.I.C.

Before I know it, I have a travel companion. A tiny Princeton student clearly en route back to her native land with a suitcase bigger than her body perches RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I am too ill to be irritated but I should have warned her to step away. Her loss. She pops in her earbuds not a moment too soon. As the train lurches forward the sweats are upon me. I am caught up in an overwhelming feeling of volcanic churning just below the surface. I rip out my barf bag which I have stuffed into the front pocket of my suitcase, lean forward, open my lips and let loose the liquid hot magma gorge of Vesuvius. It is rank. Half of it misses the bag and lands squarely on my jeans and trickles down to pool on the gum-dotted floor of the car. Well shit. That's probably the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me. Barfing in a public place is bad - I'll write about the infamous Patti LuPone debacle in another post. (I am STILL fuming about that one.) But barfing on oneself takes the cake.

Tiny traveler doesn't look up. She doesn't move. What is wrong with people? I wipe my mouth, bust out the disinfectant wipes and go to work on my jeans. Then I think, well, this smells awful...someone is bound to get a whiff in the next car. We can't have that now, can we? No. So I pour water all over the slopped vomit like a tipsy sailor spills rum on deck. Drip drip splash and good - that's working, it's washing away...it still smells like puke but I'm not a middle school janitor with a bucket o' sawdust. I sprinkle some Purell to mask the odor and pull myself together. The conductor passes through and sniffs the air, wrinkles his brow, looks at me and I hand over my ticket, then he walks away.

30 minutes later we pull into the airport. I am supposed to meet not only my BFF but my BF who is on a layover in between flights. I call my friend "Thelma" who says she's still on the train out of the city. OK...I'm walking like a geriatric who's just had a hip replacement. I'm gurgling with pain still, everything churning about. There's still more bile to come. I can feel it rising up against me. Then, pathetic as I am, I call "Biff." He's there and says he'll come meet me at AirTrain. HURRY UP, I croak into the phone. I board yet another moving vehicle to take me to Terminal C. Some poor soul gets in my car. Not smart, dude. I may shit myself at any minute. The space-age capsule is hot in the direct sunlight. I am literally doing Lamaze breathing techniques and bracing myself - standing upright - against the rail to keep from passing out. Finally the twee little voice chirps "Terminal C" - thank you sweet Jesus Christ! I am delivered!

There's my darling Biff, waiting for me in his little Brooks Brothers non-iron shirt: crisp blue and hot as my sweaty brow and under normal circumstances, I would have leapt into his arms right there. Now I sort of shuffle squat off the shuttle as he hands me a giant bottle of Fiji water and takes my bag. I bury my head in his chest and groan, "I smell like vomit. I puked on myself on the train." He pats my head like one would, a small child who has just had an accident in public. He is so sweet and patient and sick as I am, I feel just a little bit better not to be doing this on my own. When Thelma gets there, she'll look out for me. But for now, we walk side by side to the Hudson News kiosk where I buy Pepto Bismal and Imodium to get me through the night.

And so it goes: the best of times, the worst of time...IBS is our constant companion.
-GG