Life in Ink and Footsteps

Ever since I was a kid, I hated vomiting. What was that? That everyone hates being sick? Well, obviously. I just take it a step further. You know those moments when you’re nauseous and have to decide whether to go to the bathroom and get it all out or wait it out even if you’re suffering? I am obviously not talking about food poisoning or illness, there’s usually no moment of decision – you just have to do what you have to do. But in those cases where you can choose between throwing up and continuing to suffer, I always choose to suffer. I’ve spent hours pacing around my room in a drunken stupor, shaking on my bed while my body dealt with all the booze I’d put in. As a binge eater, I was on the verge of vomiting so many times, and yet, I’d rather be in pain. It’s stupid, really. Probably more dangerous for my health too. I get sick when people get sick. One of the reasons I’m not a big party fan. Same with kids. Is it ridiculous? Trust me, I know. I’m not totally oblivious to the madness that goes on in my head. This unnecessarily long intro has a reason to it. Obvious by now, I dare say.

Children get sick. Often. I’m okay with flu, headaches, injuries, etc. Those things don’t freak me out, and as a nanny, you see them all the time. There have been several moments when I was deeply worried about the boy I cared for. Some of the stories are hilarious, some terrifying. That’s life. But one of them… one of them is flat-out disgusting.

Now, let me take you back to January of 2017. The eldest child is celebrating his 26th birthday and wants to go to a steakhouse for dinner. It is a phenomenal event—I have my first beef Wellington, it is spectacular—and we all have a wonderful time, in a way. The youngest one has a healthy appetite and can’t decide which cut of meat to get. So, for an appetizer, he starts with a petite filet mignon with fries, continues to a New York strip with the leftover fries, and tops it off with a chocolate cake. He is so full, that he falls asleep in the booth. It is unnerving and slightly embarrassing, I’m not going to lie. We all get home, go to sleep, and that is supposed to be the end of it. But wise men already know what is coming next.

The morning comes, and all seems normal. I get everything ready and head to the gym. It is my morning off, and the father is supposed to take the kids to school. But before I even reach Planet Fitness, I get a call. The boy has just vomited and is going to stay home. Can I take care of him? Sure, why not—the worst is done.

Oh, did I say the worst was done? Yeah… no. It looked like it for the next three hours. I even wrote in my diary about the dinner and how glad I was to have missed the throwing up. I noted how “perfectly fine” he was now. Those were my words: “perfectly fine.”

Fast forward to midday. He is sitting in the living room on the couch, talking to his sister, who is checking up on him. I am on the other side of the room, reading Harry Potter. Like all millennials, I reread this series when I’m not doing well. Suddenly, I hear him call out his sister’s name: “L… I’m going to be sick!” I look up at him, he drops his phone, jumps off the couch, kneels on the wooden floor, and vomits violently. Everywhere.

I get up, fly into the kitchen, gag, take a deep breath, and for about 25 seconds, I just stand there, trying to put my shit together. Then I grab napkins, towels, anything I can find, and go back to help him. I’ll spare you the details—they’re gross. I put him into his mom’s bed. I think he wants to be somewhere that feels safe and cozy. He falls asleep almost immediately, and I start cleaning. I’m proud of myself for handling it and not being sick myself.

That was supposed to be the end of it. But once again, it wasn’t. Soon I heard him call me again, and before I even got there—yes, you guessed it—the puke was all over the bed. So we started again. I helped him change, changed the sheets, and brought him a bucket. But here’s the problem: he wouldn’t use the bucket because it smelled terrible during the act. When I asked how he was planning to throw up without it, he told me he used towels. And that he needed a fresh one each time. Is this how you teach your kids to vomit, America? Or just this family?

Anyway, the next six hours were like something out of my worst nightmare. Or The Exorcist. Every 45–50 minutes, he woke up, vomited, drank some water or chamomile tea, and fell asleep again. I switched the towels, wiped his sweaty face, prepared a new drink if needed, and sat in a rocking chair next to him, waiting for the next round. I swear his body had some kind of inner clock. 45–50 minutes. Every. Single. Time.

Both parents were unreachable—busy lawyers—but kept telling me over the texts they’d be home as soon as possible. Thankfully, the cleaning lady was scheduled for that day, and she was heaven-sent. She washed the towels and gave me moral support.

It was a long day. It was a gross day. And for many years to come, this would be the most disgusting and terrifying experience of my life. I know how lucky I am, trust me. In the grand scheme of things, this was nothing. I am aware that people go through much worse on a daily basis. But try to imagine being 21, having no clue what the hell you’re doing, no real experience with illness, and a panicked fear of vomit. This was my hell.

And not only that—I was so worried for that kid. He was sick, tired, and sad. He wanted his mom. He wanted to be well again. It was, in a way, heartbreaking to see him this vulnerable. I held his hand and petted his head, but there wasn’t much else I could do to help him feel better. Just to be there with him.

There was one positive thing about it. Remember how I said we’d been having a hard time connecting with this teenage boy? Well, this experience brought us together. It wasn’t all roses and sunshine afterward, of course. We had a lot of ground to cover. But from that day on, we started to take steps in a better direction. One that would make me cry when I told him goodbye at the end of my road.

And what are we listening to?
Lukas Graham – 7 years