vomit, projectile style

vomit :v. intr.: to be discharged forcefully and abundantly; spew or gush: the dike burst, and the floodwaters vomited forth.
so, I have been chastised. after hounding others to blog more, one of those whom I hound pointed out that my own blog was as a wee bit too quiet.
so, I will tell you about the most memorable moments of my trip home this december. picture fried ham, drenched as I always drench it in maple syrup. picture a fiancé and sister eating a bit of the same sort of ham I am chowing down on with gusto. picture the faces they make as the sour meat is chewed, the sour I can not really taste through the syrup.
fast forward 14 hours.
I lay in the most comfortable bed in the world at the springer residence, I lay there quaking violently with spastic shivers that awaken sarah beside me. she piles on blankets and squeezes as far away from me as you can get in a queen sized bed while every muscle in my body twitches in time to the rapid break-beat of chattering teeth. minutes pass. I sit up. Sarah mumbles sleepy ‘it-is-four-am-isms’ at me.
my response:
I think I am going to throw up….. actually, yes, I am.
I stand and stumble into the bathroom, lift the toilet seat. eyes closed in a desperate battle with my oesophagus, using force of will to calm the churning contents of my stomach, slowly failing. the dike bursts, and the floodwaters vomit forth. high velocity spatter collides with the soft gentle bowl of the inside of the toilet. I heave once. twice. three times.
I kneel at the foot of an environmentally friendly low-flow toilet and take a shallow breath, stand, and spit into the sink. a quick rinse of water, scrounge my not-quite-yet father in-laws cabinetry for listerine. sarah hands me a glass, I pour, rinse. spit.
the acrid taste of vomit clings to my tonsils like crude oil to the bodies of small sea mammals. I go back to bed. I lay down. I sit up. I walk quickly back to the bathroom and quickly lift the lid and heave once. twice. three times. more spitting. more mouthwash. sarah brings one of those 1 gallon ice-cream buckets and sticks it beside my side of the bed. I sit. I take some slow careful breaths.
I walk quickly to the bathroom. this time there isn’t much to bring up, I can feel it dredged up from the pit of my stomach like silt from a river bed. thick and chunky. almost dry. heave once. twice. three times. tired I look in the yellow-brown soup of my stomach contents and identify chunks of things recently eaten, and a few thick dark red-brown globules of blood.
my ulcers are bleeding and I’m heaving blood, bile, and syrup covered ham into the toilet.
I rummage around and rinse with more listerine. gargle this time, since I know nothing is left in me but dry heaving anyhow. go back to bed, shiver and sweat as the household, now fully awake, starts its day.
the last time I vomited was in grade eight, I was thirteen years old. a fourteen year streak ended. I am 50/50 as to whether it was the ham or a virus, either way a wonderful record in my life has ended.