PUKING: A Love Story

Last night, for the first time in a long time, I got one of those migraines... the kind that makes you feel like your skull is caving in, like your own body has declared war on you. It crept in slow, like a bad omen, while I was at dinner with my guy, his sister, and her husband (who also happens to be my best friend)...

The dinner was in memory of their aunt, a woman I had the good fortune to meet before she passed. It was intimate, quiet, the kind of gathering where everyone is just a little softer around the edges.

Paseo de Luna was the perfect place for it. Warm, cozy, a little homey in that way that makes you forget you’re not in your own living room. I should’ve been enjoying myself, but I knew. I knew. That faint throb behind my right temple, the way the light started feeling just a little too sharp, the way my stomach churned even though I was only halfway through my meal... it was all there, the early warning signs of impending doom.

This was my tax for pushing my body too far. I had been awake for almost 24 hours, completely lost in my book, burning through my own reserves like they were infinite. And now, here I was, paying for it in full.

This is not a photo. This is a CT scan of my pride and pain negotiating terms.

By the time we were about to start drinking, the throbbing in my head had turned into something impossible to ignore. I knew better. I turned down the drinks, much to their surprise. I never turn down drinks on a Saturday night! But there’s a point where even my own stubbornness folds, and this was that point. Instead, I curled up on the couch at Paseo, feeling half-guilty, half-relieved, and politely asked if I could take a "nap"... if two hours of passing out on a couch counts as a nap.

I woke up to my guy pressing kisses to my cheek, checking in on me. It helped, a little. For a moment, I thought maybe I had dodged the worst of it. But no. The migraine won. It always wins.

On the way back to his place, in the pickup truck, I slipped into that familiar space... pain, suffering, but mine. And I didn't want to pass it on. They were having fun, laughing, still full from dinner. I stayed quiet, pressing my fingers to my temple, pretending the nausea wasn't creeping up my throat.

They made a quick stop at some new resto for pares, and I stayed behind in the truck, closing my eyes, trying to breathe through it. Waiting. 'Please don’t puke, please don’t puke, please don’t puke.'

And for a while, the universe seemed to listen. Until we were a little past Bankerohan Bridge, and I knew... I knew... I wouldn't make it.

I panicked. My guy, God bless his people-pleasing heart, scrambled to empty out his bag so that I could puke into it. He could've just told his brother-in-law to pull over, but I suspect he didn't want to inconvenience him, and to make sure both of our needs were met, he offered his own bag for me to puke in, while he never told my best friend to pull over. Thank goodness my guy's sister called my best friend out to pull over because my pride... my stupid, stubborn pride... would've been wounded if I puked in their truck in my guy’s tiny bag. I didn’t want to be the reason his bag and my best friend’s truck smelled like death for the rest of eternity.

I needed to own my misery.

I managed hop off the truck to just in time. There was a patch of grass on the side of the road. Perfect! In true college-wasted fashion, I emptied my stomach. Everything I had eaten, gone. It wasn’t even that much food, but it felt like I was vomiting out my entire past week’s worth of meals.

I didn't care about the traffic zooming past me. Didn't care who saw. The only thing that mattered was getting through it, because once the puking stopped, the migraine would ease up... just a little.

My guy was next to me the whole time, handing me water, rubbing my back, watching me like I was some fragile thing that might shatter if he stepped away. He was worried. I could feel it radiating off him.

That was the first time they had all seen me like that. The migraine at its worst. The stripped-down, helpless version of me. And yet, they didn't make me feel like I was a burden. But if they minded, they never let it show.

I learned something last night. About myself, about pain. I suffer in silence. Even when it’s unbearable, even when it would be easier to let someone hold some of it for me, I still try to carry it alone. I don’t know if that’s strength or stupidity. Maybe both.

And I learned something about my guy. The way he cares is not calculated, not thought-out. It’s reflex. Instinct. Like breathing.

This morning, my head feels brand new. Reset. No pain at all. And thinking back on last night, I can’t help but laugh. Life, man. It gets you when you least expect it. One minute, you’re at a warm, intimate dinner, eating a damn good meal... and the next, you’re on the side of the road, purging your insides like some tragic drunk.

You never really see the lemons coming. But they always come.

—Kooks D., Open Journal, Puking: A Love Story, 2.23.2025, Sunday 7ish PM

#journaling #love #whenlifegivesyoulemons #migraine #resilience #selfawareness #knowthyself