I've always preferred having diarrhea over puking.
Diarrhea never forces you to desperately hope for air. Sure, it may inspire clamoring for a match or a window, but you never really are *forced* to stop breathing like puking does as it fights for full command of your throat. Diarrhea may force you to inhale some horrific odors rivaling the Bog of Eternal Stench, but puking forces you to taste it.
Over 10 years ago, I decided to never puke again regardless of whatever sewage threatened to break the dam in my throat. I've been sick, I've been food poisoned, but in those 10 years, I never allowed my body the choice to expel waste material from my mouth. For instances when my resolve has been contested, I simply lied down and visualized the toxin moving through my intestines and heading for the Southern exit. (It works!)
Last Thursday, my husband decided to stay home and spend time with his lovely pregnant wife. (That would be me.) For lunch, we went to a lovely nearby deli where we occasionally enjoy gourmet sandwiches, salads, and desserts. To split betwixt us, we ordered an egg salad sandwich, a chicken breast with ham sandwich, and a chicken pesto salad. I was well into my portion of the egg salad sandwich when I got an overwhelming prompting that I shouldn't be eating that or any of the order. I mentioned this to my husband. I even called my sister to get an all-clear from her. (She has been pregnant before.) But eventually, my hunger and my tastebuds won out. I rationalized that this small portion of food couldn't hurt. Surely.
Fast-forward to 3 a.m. that night.
I woke up with a painful weight in my stomach and knew right away I had food poisoning. Just above my stomach was the taunting presence of vomit desiring to "just take a peek" from my tonsils. I writhed in pain and visualized the offending poison heading south. I smiled when I heard my intestines creak and groan. I fell asleep. For a couple minutes.
I woke up, went to the bathroom, and "released" some rerouted poison; I was disappointed to find that the amounts were negligible.
I had just returned to bed feeling worse than ever. My husband, half-asleep, reached up to comfort me by rubbing my back. Ut-oh. "Don't touch me please! It's making me want to puke! OH NO! OH NO!" [gag]
I sprinted into the bathroom and leaned over one of the two sinks at the vanity. I knew then my 10+ year record was over.
I learned two things in the following few seconds. (1) The sink I had chosen was in desperate need of some Drano. (2) I did not chew my dinner very well that evening.I cried between spewings, hovering my face inches above the brown stew filling the sink and watching string beans still completely intact float like splintered beams of an old wooden ship after a pirate attack. I felt my husband's hand gather my hair into a pony tail.
Upon sensing a break in the volcanic show, I moved over to the second sink and tested its draining power. Success. I decided right then that the best place to vomit is in the sink. The stuff routinely leaves your sight as it slides towards the drain, and there's clean running water right there to help swish out the acid residue in your mouth.
The rest of the night involved much whining, crying, and pleading ("I don't want to again…I don't want to again…) so I'll spare you the details.
Anyhoo… It turns out that I had ingested in my lunch some undesirable toxins to my baby and puking was the best way to protect her, so now I at least have something to hang over her head when she's a teenager. "I PUKED MYGUTS OUT FOR YOOOOUUU!"
I'm starting on my no-puking record again. This time, I'm aiming for eternity.