Cocawydamo Surprise

I knew something was wrong when my morning cereal tasted like dirt and acid.
My Honey-Bunches-of-Oat flakes looked crunchy and smelled delectable, but something about the aftertaste rang red like a tornado siren. Was it the cereal or was I borderline sick today? I opted to dump it out rather than force it down and then brushed my teeth more thoroughly than during a panicked pre-dentist hour.

The remainder of my Cocawydamo morning (pronounced: koh-kuh-why-duh-mow) flew by with good music and disjointed packing. In the next two and a half weeks I shall travel to Colorado (CO), California (CA), Wydaho (WY & ID), and then back to Missouri (MO). The word Cocawydamo reminds me of tropical things like coconut and Beachboy songs.

During the delightful, yet bittersweet ride to the airport, my man and I got Boba Tea (my favorite) and I snagged a Wendy's chicken sandwich to subdue my growling stomach. I thoroughly enjoyed every sip and bite. Hugs, prayers, and waves later, I entered the KCI terminal alone and reached my gate in approximately 7 minutes (trained in airport-efficiency by my world-traveling dad).
The flight progressed the same as my previous hundreds--polite hello to the person I'll be rubbing elbows with (unintentionally) for the next two hours, computer-voiced instructions for survival and safety, take-off thirty minutes later, Sprite with a few extra napkins to doodle on, pull out a good book and forget about the time.
The pre-descent turbulence came before I finished my current chapter. I pushed the limits of air-sickness tolerance, relying on my clean track record of no-hurling on airlines. Today, the limits pushed back.

I closed my book mid-chapter, cranked the plastic air vent, and shut my eyes--a foolproof way to avoid air-sickness. On a rebellious whim, my half-digested Wendy's and Bubble Tea decided to dance hip-hop. I've never been good at hip-hop and my stomach is clearly not a fan because it kicked out the dancers.
As the food-dancers meandered out of the stomach-door, my brainwaves turned frantic. I ripped open thought-drawers and rifled through papers of distraction (if you don't think about barfing it won't happen, right?). My brain settled on stringing together beautiful descriptive words for a blog post about throwing-up (no joke). For some reason, this didn't distract me (sarcasm). My breathing turned deep, loud, and desperate--embarrassing, but necessary. In a last plea, I mentally threw out frantic prayers that looked like, "God, please don't let me throw up!" on repeat.

We landed. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my stomach delivered a kick to the meandering dancers. Wendy's and Boba Tea raced hand-in-hand for freedom, emerging into the fresh air of a United Airlines cabin. I pulled out the blue sick-sack just in time to catch them. By God's grace, I made no sound (usually I'm very loud in this area of bodily functions). I could share many details, but I'll spare you and just say that I thank the Lord for my velum, for plastic lining, and for the spare napkins I never ended up doodling on (but put to good use).

Mortification, n., "the feeling one gets when throwing up on an airline elbow-to-elbow with a stranger after the plane has already landed."

I was thirteen the last time I threw up from motion-sickness (this includes cars, planes, ships/boats, and amusement parks). For eleven years I prided myself on my delayed gag-reflex--even bragged about it sometimes. Today it gets a spanking.

My row-neighbor said it was "okay" in response to my apology and asked if I felt better (if "better" means shaking, pale, and sweaty, then yes). The old lady across the aisle patted my arm and gave a sweet understanding smile. I ended the flight with a weak stagger to the exit, a personal vow to never fly after sketchy Honey-Bunches-of-Oats, a glare at the smiling pilot (though I know he's innocent), and a whisper to the nearest flight attendant:

"There's a sick-sack under a seat in row 13. Just letting you know."