Spaceland sickness

There has only been one time in my life when the real fear of possible death (or a visit to the hospital, at the very least) crossed my mind. It was a little more than a year ago and I was on a plane flying to Philadelphia to catch a connecting flight to the Virgin Islands. I was traveling alone (as it tends to be), I had been sick for the past several days, and I was overcome with sudden cold chills, sweat beading on my forehead, and the need to vomit. As the passenger sitting next to me was sleeping under his blanket in the darkened cabin, I thought I was going to die. Should I press the button for assistance? Should I pull out my barf bag? Would they land the plane and rush me to the hospital? Just as quickly as the nausea and panic came, it went, and I was left to wonder what the hell just happened.

Since then, I’ve had a couple of encounters when I had to throw up, but none so pronounced and none so full of fear that something was really wrong with me, until last night.

The evening started innocently enough. Jeanne and I met Karen, Gabe, and some other people at the Silver Mug. After a couple of vodka tonics, some great and not-so-great karaoke renditions of “Paint It Black,” “Under the Bridge,” “I Want You to Want Me,” and “Under Pressure,” being called Gabby throughout the night be an older Latino man, and a couple of Vietnamese spring rolls, Karen, Jeanne, and I drove over to Spaceland to see Andy’s band play. (Note on Andy: He was a substitute teacher for my 12^th grade English class and was the one to introduce me to Haruki Murakami.)

We were late and the band had already gone on so we ordered more drinks, ran into yet another RHS alum, and played pool with some random men. Andy and I ate some Chips Ahoy cookies from a bag that we saw on the counter and had some cigarettes. Some man told me that I had nice lips and that he didn’t want me to take it the wrong way; I told him thanks, that I was leaving, and to have a good night.

After losing at pool, we left and decided that food was what was needed. Andy directed us to a Mexican food thing (I don’t know exactly what to call it since it wasn’t a Taco truck, it wasn’t a restaurant, it wasn’t anything I had seen before—everything was outdoors, kitchen and all, and all under a tent of some sort) on Santa Monica at Hawthorne. I ordered a carne asada quesadilla, Karen and Andy ordered Cubano sandwiches, and I can’t quite remember what Jeanne ordered although I am tempted to say that it was a chimichanga (it was something fried, I am sure of).

Because it was near freezing, we drove over to the house where Andy was house-sitting. We watched The Warriors as we ate and as cats climbed on me (for someone who isn’t too fond of pets, cats somehow are drawn to me). We ate and I was happy, for a little while.

Then, it came. Nausea. The feeling of utter sickness. The desire to want to rip your insides out and dump them down the drain.

We drove home and I rushed to the bathroom. I lied in bed trying to fall asleep, trying to find any comfortable position. But, each time I moved, I felt that churn in my stomach creeping up my throat. I lied there and wondered how many more hours until morning and if an ambulance would have to be called for me. I wondered if they’d have to pump my stomach. I wondered what was it that made me feel so ill. The drinks, the cigarettes, the quesadilla, the Vietnamese spring rolls? I guess I’d never know.