You know that storm band trudging across the country? I flew to Florida yesterday, and our flight managed to ride that puppy from Little Rock to Atlanta.
As the turbulent air bounced and dropped us along, my lunch decided it wasn't having a good time and wanted to evacuate. I took all the normal steps to stop its progress.
I stopped reading my novel.
I initiated deep breathing.
Still it fought me.
When I got all cotton-mouthed and hot all over, I knew I was losing. I took off my sweatshirt, and stole the A/C novel from my sleeping neighbor in my direction. Yeah, that was bad, but I figured she'd rather that than sit next to a used barf bag.
Between spasmodic prayers for the taming of my stomach, I located said bag just in case.
The end of my no-throwing-up-on-planes-ever streak was nigh upon me, when I felt a tap on my arm. A soldier one row back asked if I was scared. I explained I was more sick than scared. He told me to take deep breaths and not read (check, check) and I turned back to my prayers.
Not a minute later, he's crouched in the aisle, seatbelt sign notwithstanding, offering me two little waters and a heavy duty plastic bag that he got from the flight attendant. With tiny sips, and more urgent prayer, I made it all the way to landing with the contents of my stomach intact, for which I, and everyone around me, was grateful.
So, I'm thankful for helpful soldiers who don't mind breaking the seatbelt rule, for water, and that I didn't break my vomit-free streak. I'm grateful for the upchuck reflex, I suppose, since some things need to be rejected, but I'm also grateful that my personal reflex usually hesitant.