The Four Humours

While in the throes of something like a high fever, an attack of nausea, food poisoning or in labor, it's not a good idea to ask me questions. I don't understand the things I do when I am about to vomit, and no one should even try.
Just back away and let me crawl up the wall, and don't panic.
Rest assured, it's mostly the demons acting themselves out. Haitians are fortunate to have voodoo ceremonies, as few religions or cultures provide a comparable release. In my experience, becoming violently ill is sometimes all you've got. I don't look forward to these events, by any means. Like having a sebaceous cyst lanced, it's necessary and intense.
A vicious stomach bug which I recently contracted (just 2 days after the exciting Obama victory) got me thinking about the 4 humours: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood. No, I'm not going to get that specific. Suffice it to say I spent several hours with my head in a garbage pail while seated on the can. Lots of humours...
Having known each other for close to 20 years, Bisq has stuck with me through a lot of grizzly events - not the least of which was watching our son being "sectioned" out of me while I flailed around on the operating table with a case of the DTs (Delirium Tremens) from the epidural. Puking into the wind on numerous occasions, making an emergency #2 on the side of the road, and howling next to his SUV after ingesting 'shrooms in the 100+ degree heat in Utah back in 1996 may fill the pages of his memoirs.
This particular bug kicked in on Thursday night around 6:30 PM, just after I had made myself a chicken burger with broccoli. The nausea was immediately relentless. My face was going numb, and my breathing became coarse. My complexion was turning from peach to lime sherbet. During this obeah transformation, I began to pace in order to regulate my breathing. Meanwhile, Zev was begging me to draw strawberries for him on his etch-a-sketch pad. I panted a cryptic message to my neighbor's voicemail, breathily urging her to come over and deal with Zev so that I could convulse in privacy. I just needed someone to give me permission to temporarily leave this world. Minutes later, Bisq called. He was about an hour away in Northridge. I must have sounded like Linda Blair in The Exorcist (if you need to refresh, have a quick look). I really wasn't in any shape to be giving a status report, but the 911 call was entirely unnecessary. Bisq didn't want to take any chances, so in about 8 minutes, the guys in uniform appeared. They saw that I was in distress and began running tests on me - blood pressure, blood sugar. I knew that puking was in my future, which would probably resolve the demonic episode. However, the cluster of people in my living room only served as an obstacle to me getting a hold of my garbage bucket. Wrath was released in the form of vomit everywhere and covered everyone involved. Sorry guys. I told y'all that I could do this on my own.
It got me thinking about my dear old family members in their finest hours. My mom always knew how to puke quietly...and for that matter, how to get back to whatever it was she was drinking. She puked a lot when I was growing up: as a means to keep her weight down and in keeping with her philosophy: "Better Out Than In." She managed to keep the toilet bowl clean of all residue and burned incense when necessary. It didn't really bother anyone.
My dad was/is an ugly sight when sick. I've only seen him "ralph" few times. But, like myself, he shouts while vomiting. I think we also have "nose vomiting" in common. He's rarely ill, but I vaguely remember a few periods of weakness/shame while recovering from 3 of his 5 significant surgeries: vasectomy, hemorrhoid, and gum surgery. After the hemorrhoidectomy, doctors had ordered him to stay in the prone position for a number of days post-surgery. Watching Tom and Jerry on the television in my parents' bed next to an ass is not something that's easily forgettable. Non-scalpel vasectomies had not yet become available in the late 1970s. My dad always had been on the cutting edge (no pun intended) of surgery. He got hair plugs right around the same time which left crusty bloody dots all over his scalp. He bled a lot, for a man. In his drawer, a reminder of his vasectomy remained for years and years: a pair of hospital-issued undies, fashioned from netting. But, live long enough and spend a night or two in the hospital, and ye shall have a pair of your own. The vasectomy worked, as far as I know.
One of my earliest memories from childhood was when my parents were trying to force an enema on my brother after they had mistakenly given him penicillin, to which they remembered he was deathly allergic. It was my medication that had accidentally been given to him. I wasn't allowed in the bathroom, but I kept my ear to the door. Out of habit, I suppose, my mom had the bathwater running. It sounded like they were in Niagara Falls and very stressed out. I'm not sure whatever resulted or which orifice the tube went up or down. But, Augie survived and has continued a penicillin-free life. Now he struggles with low-back pain and frequent colds. Nothing worth pressing your ear against a door.

The morning after I spent puking all night, it was the inevitable trip to the laundromat to throw the pukey rug into an industrial machine which brought me back into the real world (the world where oozing goes on behind closed doors). I'm lucky it didn't last long and I'm lucky enough to have shed 3 pounds the old fashioned way. Bonus! I was due for the exorcism, as it had been quite a few years since my last gastrointestinal emergency. How many more times will it get ugly? Who's to say?
You may or may not agree with my hypothesis here, but, in some weird way, it's a privilege to bear witness to healing crises.
Gross, yes. Still, it's reassuring to know that there's still a voodoo exorcism brimming in us all. How else are you going to release all that trauma? Just be prepared to clean up afterwards.
PS: those are really discarded Cheetos (uneaten) in the toilet.