Many people with Fragile X have GERD, or Acid Reflux Disease. Punkin is one of these people. He now takes two medications to help manage it -- one in the morning and one at night. Anyway, three weeks ago Punkin and I joined my mom and her friend for their weekly Mexican food and drink relaxation time. Punkin and I arrived much earlier than the others and he had already consumed a fair amount of salsa. By the time they arrived, but before they could actually sit down, I was catching vomit in my hands and depositing it into an empty chip basket. So no more salsa for Punkin.
The next week, maybe Wednesday, I called my mom around 5:00pm. "Can you please come get him on your way home? Please?" She walked in to find vomit covering my couch and television. Like I've said before, It's a puzzle to me why I don't have more visitors.
And then there's this past Thursday night, again after Mexican food, but this time he just ate chicken and cheese, he yelled, "OH NO!" after I put him to bed. Sure enough, he spent the next 10 minutes in the shower and I spent the next 20 trying not to swear.
I felt, though, like I handled all three of those situations pretty well. I cleaned them up rather quickly and aside from the television incident, which was out of my control, I kept it contained. Until Friday.
I was that person. We were that family. Punkin had already eaten a big snack at home. I should have known better, but I was distracted and just let him order those stupid corn dogs at the restaurant --the intimate, quiet, downtown restaurant. We were nearing the end of the meal, were probably going to pay soon, and then it just came. It just came like a fountain. A beige barf fountain.
And I froze. I wanted to get him up and away from the table, but more just kept coming. People nearby were switching tables, staring in horror, the waitress was dumbfounded. No one knew how to proceed except that they wanted to move away. I just kept thinking, "And now if I move him, he'll drip puke everywhere. Like a little trail to the reflux kid." In hindsight, I should have scooped him up and carried him outside, because carrying him to the bathroom would be rather useless --he's about 50% on hitting the toilet on a good day. But I just kept catching and dumping. When is it that moving towards vomit becomes your instinct?
Oma and her friend, who happened to be the one who witnessed a similar scene at the Mexican restaurant three weeks ago, started cleaning up while her husband grabbed a disposable blanket and stood in the rain with me outside to hose Punkin off before carrying him to the car. Seriously, a hose, in the rain, outside of a restaurant. It's okay to laugh.
I've never been so happy to leave a place.
We are working on portion control. I really don't know what else to do.