New Year’s Eves in my past have consisted of both fun and regrettable activities.  And after the regrettable ones, I have woken up on January 1st with a hangover and a dream…to be released from my prison of pain.  After four consecutive such NYC NYE celebrations, I was looking forward to a low-key, family-friendly turning of the decade in California with the BF and future in-laws.  I’m talking early dinner, Monopoly games, watching the ball drop on TV.  And that’s pretty much the way it went.  My grown-up self was even asleep before midnight (Pacific time).

Then 2 AM came.  And with it, the nightmares.  Nightmares of enduring a mind-numbingly painful stomachache, only to wake up and find that the ache was real. My mind fluttered back through the last couple of days since our arrival in the land of sunshine, which had included notices of various family members who were under the weather.  It looked like that weather had come to park above my head at the Calabasas Good Nite Inn.  I raced to our small but clean bathroom and heaved out the chips and cheese dip I had enjoyed for dinner.  Then I turned around and other, more regrettable things happened.  This went on for six hours until, at 8 AM, I was tired of being a big girl.  Also, my face was white but the insides of my ears were on fire.  I knew a pass-out was imminent.  So I threw myself on the bed.  “HELP!”  I moaned.  The BF asked if I was okay.  “NO!” I screamed into my small but clean pillow.  “Did you say yes or no?” he mumbled through the haze of sleep.  Moments later, he was en route to the grocery to stock up on Gatorade and researching with his iPhone where the local medical centers were located.  I took advantage of his absence to desecrate the bathroom some more.

It’s either a testament to a pretty smooth life, the signal of a low pain threshold, or both that I can honestly describe that day’s pain as the worst I’ve ever experienced.  I lay on the bed and doubled over the toilet in agony.  In the bathroom, especially, I worked on some theological negotiations:  telling JC that I knew I shouldn’t get a pass just for believing in him, or even for loving him, but that if he could just shorten the life of this evil thing inside me that would be so so great.  I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep; I just plain begged.  From the pit, I cried out to the only one I thought could make a difference.  And he let me stay there awhile.  Then he let me sleep.  And the next morning, the evil had passed.  Though the bathroom looked and smelled like we had rented it out to Satan for the night.

Over the next few days, I rued the fact that my first possible hangover-free New Year’s Day in awhile had taken such a turn.  But I did this in the presence of family and sunshine and warm temperatures, on beaches and in parks and on terraces overlooking the Pacific.  The day the BF and I headed back to the frigid island we call home, we started the day on that terrace.  Sunglasses on, coffee in hand, Bibles in front of us both.  And all I could think was that I would literally deal with any amount of shit to get to this moment, right here.