Crystal, myself and several others were on our way to see the Normal Rockwell museum. Long, winding, mountainous roads brought on severe car sickness (a.k.a. never-gonna-really-throw-up-nausea... the worst kind). On the way back, Crystal offered to sit in the very back so I could sit closer to the front (the front! The seat of gold. The place where nausea fears to tread. The Land Of The Iron Stomachs!) I complied, being of a weak mind and even weaker stomach.
Yet it is not this act of kindness that sticks in my mind today. It was her words after: I don't get car sick.
O! The sheer heaven of the thought! Could such a life be possible? Could such injustices exist where one could experience such anguish that induces the most devout promises to a deity who would grant but one request, while another sits peacefully by... reading a book?! It is not to be borne!
But that thought haunted... taunted me, rather. She didn't know car sickness. She sat in the back, happy as a clam, smiling at her baby... and perhaps even stealing a few glances at my crossword puzzle I had naively brought along. But my days of back-seat riding had been far behind me, and my memory was weak. Where once I believed my stomach to be secure, my senses came back in an instant of one swift swerve of the road, and once quick tap of the brakes.
Fellow Nauseans, are we communicating?
So, with this idea in my mind that perhaps it was entirely (or mostly) my own fault of giving into these car-sick miseries that made me so sick, I decided to put myself to task.
Actually, I had also been experiencing unexplained nausea while on dry and stable land (not pregnant) so I finally said to myself, 'Nausea can no longer dictate what I do and do not participate in.' Because one day, I'm going to have kids. Little kids. And I'm going to be pregnant. And I'll probably have morning sickness. And I'm going to be in the car, with our two little ones in the back of our Sorento on our way to have pizza.
Pizza.
And the last thing I can think of wanting to do is eat yucky, greasy, garlic-smothered pizza, which is tantamount to a chum bucket at this current trimester. But, Fred is hungry and the kids love pizza and, though that night I probably tried to cook, I probably would wind up puking again, so Daddy Fred will put us all in the car and start to drive.
And, while staring dead ahead at the road, not wanting to induce anymore undue nausea, undoubtedly little, mini-Fred will drop his paci. And he will cry. I'll ask little, mini-Mary if she can reach it. She can't.
In that moment, I will pause. Ahead of me: pizza, garlic sauce (nausea). Where I'm sitting: morning sickness (nausea). Behind me, o! Behind me! Turning to face The Back? The Back- where all equilibrium can be off-set by a glance of a road sign receding too rapidly, or a head turned too quickly.
Behind me: the paci, and a little, crying, mini-Fred...
I will loosen my seat belt, turn around, pick up the paci, and I'm only guessing I will stick it in my mouth to clean it off (because I've seen moms do that a hundred times), and little, mini-Fred will be happy again. And I will turn around again and see that we are turning into Domino's.
And that is why nausea cannot dictate my decisions.
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