Emetophobia

When I was pregnant with my first child, my biggest fear was how I would handle myself when this kid inevitably vomited. My mother tried to point out all the other more worthy things for a new parent to worry about, — finances, chronic illness, the child’s safety, bullying, the teen years. While I realized that whether or not this kid vomited was very low on the grand totem pole of important things to worry about, my fears could not be comforted. Each day as my belly grew, so did my anxiety. Each moment brought me closer to giving birth, which brought me closer to encountering vomit.

My list of top fears in life, that induce mind-bending anxiety that manifests by causing uncontrollable shaking, racing thoughts, loss of appetite, and insomnia, are rated in the following order.

1. Vomiting.

2. Someone vomiting on me.

3. Watching someone vomit.

4. Not being able to escape if someone vomits near me.

5. Death.

[Insert laughter here.]

I know a lot of people struggle with phobias of shit, like elevators, heights, and animals, and I sometimes wish I could trade with them. Let’s consider this “logically”. It is completely possible to live one’s life on the first floor. If small spaces did me in, I could simply refuse to get on elevators or play seven minutes in heaven. Animals are a little trickier because chance encounters are more likely, but I could always refuse to go to the home of someone who owned a dog, or scream like hell and run away if I saw a snake. I could always call someone to kill a spider. Though I’m sure people who struggle with these phobias have the same ridiculous reaction to their fears as I do, their fears seem a little more avoidable than mine.

A fear of vomit isn’t socially acceptable. If I were to run away screaming every time I saw vomit, I think the guys with the butterfly nets would really come after me. So I usually try to hide my level of discomfort to some degree in order to not come off as totally crazy.

Vomit can come on at any moment. People are like dormant volcanoes that can become active at any moment and spurt vomit everywhere. It’s hard for me to even write this because it requires that I think of the possibility. I think about shit like, — What if I’m in an elevator and someone vomits and I can’t get out? Or worse, — What if I’m in a car or an amusement park ride and someone actually vomits on me and I can’t get out until the ride is over?

I have a friend who has an aversion to pubic hair. She once told me that she has nightmares of being covered in a mountain of this coarse, tightly curled hair. I liken my aversion to hers. In my darkest moments, I envision being trapped in a room with someone who is uncontrollably vomiting all over me, and unable to escape, I begin to vomit myself.

In order to safeguard myself against the perils of vomit, I have learned to recognize signs of nausea with a 90% accuracy rate. (Humor me here. Statistics, -even made up ones, make me feel a little bit better.)

First, there’s the movement of malaise. When someone feels sick, they shift their body frequently and make subconscious gestures towards their stomachs. If I see someone moving in this manner, I keep a careful watch to ensure they don’t get too close. At this stage, the person may still be able to compose him or herself until the nausea passes. But you can never be too sure.

Next, there’s what I call the “vomit face”, which is similar to the sour face depicted in Starburst Sour Candy commercial from back in the day where the character’s reaction to the candy’s taste is totally misunderstood. I rarely misunderstand the vomit face.

Then there is the telltale sign of gagging. Before the dreaded sound, the offending person will try to suppress this reflex by covering their mouth. His or her chest thrusts forward and they tighten their lips. Once someone gets to this stage, my only choice is to desperately haul ass to the nearest exit, which of course I’ve already scoped out.

Imagine how difficult attending a party during college was for me. With people drinking to excess, the potential for vomit increases exponentially. Those situations produce a little less anxiety for me because I group vomit in different categories. Alcohol induced vomiting usually passes once the person expels the alcohol and is not contagious. I can also gauge the potential for vomit by taking mental note of the person’s level of sobriety. And usually if I leave a party earlier than 1 a.m., I can avoid witnessing the effects of binge drinking. An escape route is key.

Illness induced vomiting is a whole different ballpark that I knew I couldn’t avoid once I had a child. Kids are filthy creatures who experience the world with their hands and mouths and touch every germ -infested object with ignorance of the impending danger. Just thinking about it gave me 41 weeks of stress. Yup. The entire pregnancy, I worried about how I would handle supporting my child, the clean up, and worse, -my increased potential for contracting a stomach virus.

I attribute the etiology of my fear to my older sister, who as a kid would sometimes vomit with such a force, I would step out into the hallway of our apartment building and cover my ears with my hands as she retched. I never understood how my mother handled those situations with Zen-like patience. I always assumed someday I would grow up, shed this fear, and be able to handle shit with such grace. It obviously didn’t happen that way. At forty years old, I still feel like I haven’t reached that ever-evading pinnacle of adulthood where I can handle shit without feeling like I’m going to crack at any moment.

I once told my son that if he vomited on me, I would probably give him up for adoption. He was three. By the time they could talk, all three of my kids knew that if their stomachs hurt, they needed to distinguish between the kind of stomachaches that would and wouldn’t produce vomit. Once, after eating some bad fish, and all three of them were up all night puking their guts out, I walked outside and had to convince myself not to get in my car, drive away, and never come back. I called one of my girlfriends and after a tear-filled conversation with me hiccuping through snot, she convinced me not to leave. Two weeks ago when my 13 year old fell ill, she expressed remorse because some of her puke got on the toilet seat and the floor. I felt guilty, because she was so sick we ended up in the emergency room because I feared dehydration, yet comforted that she felt some responsibility to shield me. Still, I didn’t eat for three days and was so anxious; I thought I might have to commit myself again, (another story).

The first time a kid threw up in my classroom, I yelled at another kid to shut up because he outwardly displayed the same kind of meltdown I was silently having, and I couldn’t sift through both his emotions and mine. As a reaction to the lack of control I felt during that experience, I start each school year by telling my students that if they throw up in my classroom, we will have a problem. I then point out the four trashcans I keep in each corner just in case. It doesn’t take long for them to figure out that the only surefire way they can get out of my class is to tell me they feel like they may throw up. I know they take advantage to escape the particularly boring aspects of grammar instruction, but the risk of vomit by far outweighs my concern for them skipping class.

I had no idea this fear was even considered a phobia, much less has an actual name, emetophobia, until a year ago after coming across “Surviving Anxiety” in The Atlantic, by Scott Stossel, who tried to overcome his fear through exposure therapy. Like him, I cringe at reports of outbreaks of norovirus. It didn’t help that my mother worked for the Department of Public Health and would frequently report epidemics and school closings to me. After reading about his failed attempt to cure his phobia, which involved ipecac syrup, a creepy bathroom in the basement of a hospital, and a battle-axe of a nurse standing over him remarking on his ironclad stomach, I knew,

-THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY I WILL EVER SEEK REMEDY.

I don’t think repetition is necessary for emphasis of how strongly I feel about the matter. Forget about world peace, poverty, saving the fucking whales, or even holding my own kid’s head over the toilet. I’d rather continue to scan people, measure their probability of vomiting from a distance, and calculate an escape plan. These measures make me feel like I have some degree of control over the possibility of my number one fear, -me vomiting. And considering that with the exception of two occasions when I foolishly drank too much, (twenty years ago), the last time I vomited, was 1984, so I know I can be trusted. As for my faith in the rest of the population, -not so much.