Oh, I’m Going to Die.
My family had planned a delightful three days in Paris, our only scheduled jaunt from London during my stay, where we would see the romantic city in all its glory.
But I made this enchanting trip very, very challenging for anyone to enjoy.
After spending New Year’s Eve partying with the Americans, I could barely hold up my head while trudging through Heathrow. Everyone was rushing but I lagged behind, my duffel slamming against my exhausted, horribly inebriated body as I dragged myself forward.
My parents kept turning around and yelling, “Kirsten! Hurry up!”
I was barely conscious of their existence. Somehow, we managed to get onto the plane in time for takeoff. Wasted beyond repair, I passed out immediately.
Within 20 minutes, I jolted awake to sudden nausea – a reaction to the flight, maybe, but definitely a reaction to the alcohol. There was no time to get to a restroom.
So THIS is what these are for, I thought, grabbing an air sickness bag from the pocket in front of my seat. I fumbled to open it – why the heck are they made like this – then I wretched several times into the bag trying to keep the vomit contained. I dry-heaved for a few minutes, then sat there holding it, wondering what to do with a bag full of puke.
Too tired and too sick to think for very long, I crumpled the top of the bag, tossed it on the ground next to me, and passed out again.
Mere moments later, we landed in Paris.
My family woke me up before it was our turn to get out of our seats, and I screamed at my parents: “Why can’t you just let me sleep?!”
I was fun.
They shrugged and started walking toward the front of the plane. Eventually and begrudgingly, I got off the plane, too.
The airport was enormous. After disembarking, we had to walk a million miles to get to wherever we were going. “Look, everything’s in French!” my mom said, pointing at signs, excited to share this experience with her children.
I didn’t care where I was, and I sure didn’t care that the signs were in French. I dragged myself and my duffel through the airport behind them, my feet slow, my brain foggy, my muscles aching, feeling like I had so often felt at home – like I’d been hit by a dump truck.
The feeling was so familiar, but the timing so inconvenient. I knew what I was doing to my family; I just couldn’t fix it. Instead I trudged forward, trying to keep up.
Having landed in a new country we had to go through customs, so eventually we stopped walking and stood in a line. I didn’t have the sense to notice how long the line was, or to pretend to be happy about Paris. I couldn’t talk or enjoy my surroundings.
I was physically incapable of doing anything except staying upright, feeling the blood sloshing aimlessly in my head, stunned into complete mental emptiness. It took all of my strength to just remain upright in the line for customs, staring at the ground, kicking my duffel along.
I stood and waited and waited some more. It felt like I’d been standing there forever, no thoughts, no feelings. Just a blob trying to turn back into a human.
And then quite quickly, without any warning and for the first time in my life, I thought: Oh, I’m going to die.
My head spun wildly, and then everything went black.