Emetophobia


If you've never heard of it, congratulations-you probably live a calm, peaceful life where the sound, "Mom, my stomach hurts..." doesn't immediately send you into fight-or-flight mode. I, however, have spent my entire life perfecting the art of panic-with-purpose.


My origin story is crystal clear: first grade, class party, girl with ruffle socks. One boy vomited what seemed like a Three Gorges Dam quantity of vomit all over his desk, the floor- just everywhere. In the midst of the chaos of scrambling for a trash can and clearing away from the rank stench, his vomit ended up on the ruffled socks of the girl sitting next to him. The image, the smell, the chaos imprinted into my 6-year-old brain like a trauma tattoo. While other kids were thinking about cupcakes and stickers, I was reconsidering the concept of "public gatherings." I was never the same after this episode.


Fast-forward to adulthood, where the universe- laughing hysterically-handed me five children, which is basically exposure therapy with a side of chaos. If you ever want to kickstart your journey, just have a small basketball team of kids who catch every stomach bug within a 40- mile radius. Being a glutton for punishment, I also worked for years as a substitute teacher and at even the slightest inkling of a stomach problem I sent kids straight to the nurse's office and out of my hands. I didn't have time for that.


And honestly? I am better. Mostly. Sort of. Okay, let's call is "functional panic."


Some people struggle with seasonal depression. But this girl, she gets seasonal digestion anxiety.


Winter hits, and suddenly every cough, burp, or "a kid threw up in my class" feels like the opening credits to a horror film. My senses sharpen. My reflexes heighten. My Amazon cart becomes a disaster preparedness list.


And because algorithms know EVERYTHING, my social media feeds have fully transformed into:

"Signs of norovirus"

"Our battle with the stomach flu"

"Why you should never trust a public restroom"

"Winter vomiting bug on the rise"

I swear my phone thinks my full-time profession is Disease Surveillance Specialist. It shows me EVERY norovirus reel like it's trying to keep me personally alive.


Do I do buffets and potlucks? Absolutely not. My emetophobic brain cannot handle this lawless land of shared food and questionable hygiene.


I did, however do something radical this past spring: I went on a cruise.

Yes. A cruise.

A floating petri dish where people willingly eat unlimited shrimp and then ride waterslides. (I did neither)

Even though my emetophobia was in full force. I did it anyway. For growth. My family. And you know what? I survived. I even enjoyed myself. Exposure therapy works- apparently five kids wasn't enough, so I decided to try 3,000 strangers.


Listen, some people go camping with less gear than I use to survive December through March. New and seasoned parents take note. I'm spilling my secrets:

  • Disposable bed-wetting pads or puppy pads: Great for pets, essential for humans who might suddenly explode. My kids could vomit on a ceiling fan and I'd still be placing puppy pads like a NASCAR pit crew.
  • Bleach cleaners: If bleach were cologne, I'd wear it. If they sold in bulk at Costco, I'd need a forklift. Now is not the time for natural medicine.
  • Rubber gloves: My version of emotional support animals.
  • Disposable plates, cups, bowls, cutlery. I do not want anyone's germy lips touching my real dishes.
  • Electrolyte drinks, medicine cups (to measure liquid quantities, bland foods (obviously)
  • Prescription Zofran. Nausea- not on my watch.
  • Hospital throw-up bags from Amazon. One click ordering has never felt so heroic. If you've never bought a 50-pack of barf bags "just incase," you haven't lived in my brain.


Between all of this and the ventilation strategies I've developed, I'm about two steps away from FEMA certification.


I know I'm going to get the "What about grape juice?" folks. Do you really want to chance purple, stainable spew? No. Just no.


I've truly improved- I no longer panic internally at every "my tummy hurts," and I can hand out ginger ale almost cheerfully. But winter still gets me. The memories, the germs, the flashbacks of that cursed ruffled sock... they all return like seasonal allergies.


Still, I push forward. Because being a mom means doing hard things even when they terrify you. And because the universe decided to give me emetophobia and a large family, purely for entertainment purposes.


So yes, I'm healing. I'm growing. I'm relaxing... slightly.


But also-

If it's December through March- maybe don't invite me to a potluck. And if you do, at least warn me so I can bring my own bleach, wipes, and safe food "just incase". Never judge the rogue puke bag that rolls out of my purse or the collection of them that I have hidden in my car.


If they ever developed a stomach flu vaccine, guess who would be the first one in line for that dose? ME. Zero hesitations.


Is it a weird phobia? Yes. But we all have our quirks. Now you know mine.


P.S. Hand sanitizers DO NOT kill stomach flu germs. WASH YOUR HANDS.


That's your seasonal PSA from your friendly, neighborhood emetophobic mom.