A thing or two I’ve learned in the past two days:
1. If you wake up and your stomach hurts, do not go on the walking tour
2. If you had explosive diarrhea the day before, it’s probably not the best idea to eat the free food in the lounge before a seven hour flight
I boarded my overnight flight to Lisbon with high expectations—dinner would be served and I had acquired a window seat. As I was directed to my new home for the next several hours, I was faintly aware of how bloated I had become, but tried to ignore my uncomfortably growing stomach underneath my clothes.
immediately I felt sorry for my seat mate—a kind, elderly Asian man who was reading an article about Israel in the NYT. He was in the way of my bathroom route.
There are a few things you become hyper aware about when you realize you have a pooping situation with nowhere to go. The first, was that this man moved slow. I took this into account and thought about warning him of the many trips I was inevitably going to be taking to the bathroom (which was roughly 8 or 9 steps away). Instead, I settled into my chair and told myself if I pretended everything was fine, the gorge of gas in my stomach would simply melt away.
It was about thirty minutes into the flight when I realized I was actually in danger. My stomach seemed to be gaining pressure the higher we got, as if the air from outside was filling me up like a hot air balloon. It was painful. Clutching my stomach, I tried pushing some air out silently but nothing would help. The stabbing pain felt as though I were about to birth a small worm, and the baby in front of my seat was not helping my imagination.
“Bathroom?” I finally asked.
The old man was a sloth in emergency situations, and I couldn’t help but think it was a good thing we weren’t in an exit aisle.
Locked in the bathroom, I tried releasing any or all of the gas that was effectively making me a blimp, but my efforts were futile. I was going to have to suffer through this. Taking a deep breath, I left the safety of the restroom and returned to my seat.
Dinner arrived shortly after, and whatever was in my stomach began punishing my brain for even considering having a bite of it. The gas baby inside of me squirmed and twisted and I clutched my stomach, trying to push it out and find some release. Rocking back and forth as if in prayer (I should have been praying to the poop gods), my trusty little seat partner finished his meal and suddenly took notice of the state I was in.
“You sick?” He asked.
“Yes, yeah, just a stomach virus, I should be fine,” I writhed in pain and smiled weakly, thinking that I might explode at any second.
“You tell stewardess, she will give you medicine,” he said urgently.
I doubted the airline hostess would have anything to deflate me, but I assured him I would tell one when they came to take away my untouched tray.
“She pregnant,” he told the stewardess.
I couldn’t really blame him, it appeared that I had gained thirty pounds in the last hour, and the pressure inside my stomach was making it hard to see my toes. The baby in front of us sobbed suddenly, and the baby inside of me cried back. Panic set in.
“I just need to lie down, I should be fine, I have some medicine,” I didn’t need the whole plane knowing they were in danger of being sprayed with feces.
The stewardess, however, sprang into action and coordinated to move my little hero to another seat so I could stretch out and birth this thing.
My bathroom route cleared, tea in hand, I stretched across the now empty row. Almost immediately, my stomach loosened and I silently could let little bursts of farts out, easing the pain in my stomach. I distantly hoped that everyone around me would blame the child in front as the source of the smell, but I was almost too relieved to care.
The rest of the trip passed smoothly. By smoothly I mean that I did not have to sprint to the bathroom, and I was able to fart my way out of immediate danger over the course of a few hours.
Finally, the lights came on and we were told via loudspeaker that we would be landing soon.
“How are you feeling?” The stewardess inquired as she collected trash items.
“Better,” I nodded.
“Wheelchair when we land?”
Confused, I shook my head. My gas was not debilitating, as far as I knew.
“Ah, it’s for the man who was sitting next to you.” She turned to speak to him across the aisle, and i couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. The friendly, slow old man, now sitting in a middle seat, nodded when asked about his wheelchair. I had uprooted a disabled man over a bit of gas.
Gypsy&Dragon 