Wake Me Up When the World Stops Spinning

View from Bluebeard Castle, high atop St. Thomas

It wasn’t the galloping Mexico don’t-drink-the-water trots, but it was close.

Our first trip to the islands, mon! My husband and I flew to St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands giddy with anticipation. In our rented squib of a car, we careened through Charlotte Amalie in search of Bluebeard Castle, anxiously avoiding a head-on with oncoming cars that obviously didn’t understand we were new to driving in the left lane. The GPS we’d carefully packed appeared to be stuck on re-route, and I finally jerked it off the windshield and stuffed it into the console.

Several stops for directions and screams to stay to the left later, we pulled into a tiny, paved lane that climbed straight up a mountain. My stomach reacted by clamping itself into a tense knot. My fingers dug into the door. I closed my eyes until we reached the top. When the car stopped, I opened one eye and uncurled my fingers from the jut that passed for an armrest on the door. My husband’s face was beaded with sweat.

“Wow! Pretty impressive!

I lay my head back and breathed deeply. He stared at me, worried. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Waiting for my stomach to settle.” I scooted up in the seat. Trite as it sounds, the view looked like a travel postcard with all the essential components: gently lapping turquoise sea, palms swaying in the breeze, cruise ships in the harbor, a centuries-old downtown bustling with activity. I smiled. “Let’s check in.”

An innocent among the natives. I did not suspect my stomach as the worst traitor on earth.

Red Hook marina

Two days passed in a flurry of exploration and excitement. On vacation, my routine was, of course, ruined. I drank too much coffee and the teensiest too much wine. I ate rich and sumptuous food with wild abandon, even (ohmigosh!) dessert!  I was invincible.

The morning of our third day, we’d planned a ferry ride to neighboring St. John to enjoy Trunk Bay and shop along the waterfront. I ignored my stomach’s protests as my husband negotiated stop-and-go traffic along Havensight, executed several u-turns to change directions (no GPS, remember?), and sped up and down and around St. Thomas’ bounteous mountains. After thirty minutes, we made it to the ferry. We parked, gathered our stuff and found the ticket counter. I ignored the floating sensation in my head and the fact that my eyesight was shadowy around the periphery, determined to enjoy the day. I waved my husband to go get tickets without me, and dropped onto one of several nutmeg-colored benches in Red Hook’s breezy ferry terminal.

He returned, holding aloft two white rectangular tickets, smiling broadly. His face fell at the sight of mine. I told him I didn’t feel so good, maybe we should wait for the next ferry until my stomach behaved. He agreed, and waited with me.

I felt better after an hour, and we boarded, sitting on the top. The wind and sun on my face felt good. My husband chatted with the people around us, smiling and laughing. I could not focus on stuff close up, so at the risk of appearing rude, I kept my eyes fastened on the far coast, trusting my equilibrium to return. I am such a sucker for optimism that completely ignores reality.

The ferry docked, gentle as a lamb, and we passengers got off in a hectic jumble, excited as toddlers. My husband hailed an island shuttle and we crowded in with an international mix of tourists. The shuttle danced over mountaintops and swung around hairpin curves. I clutched my stomach and  pasted a smile on my face. After fifteen minutes of exhilarating scenery, we zig and zagged into Trunk Bay.

“Better?” my husband asked when my feet touched pavement and the world stopped spinning.

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Yours truly willing my stomach to unquease, please.

And I was, as long as I was prone on the beach.

Later, we played Frisbee in the ocean, laughing. A delightful oasis, Trunk Bay was everything I’d hoped and more. I swam and bobbed after the Frisbee. When I stumbled up on the beach a little later, my stomach was in full rebellion. I fell onto the towel, closed my eyes, and put one hand over my face. My husband, a gangly Great Dane of a man, loped to my side.

“Need anything? Hungry? Thirsty?”

I nodded. He left in search of food to quell the encroaching weirdness I couldn’t seem to tame. He returned with chicken nuggets. I gobbled them down and drank buckets of bottled water. I recognized the signs of a hypoglycemia event, a condition I’d developed but thought under control.

Right.

The trip down the mountain from Trunk Bay was the worst sort of nightmare, and I spent it lying as horizontal as possible given the crowd of irritatingly chatty tourists packed in dense as sardines. Thank God nobody tried to talk to me. When the roller coaster ride finally jerked to a stop, I plummeted from the shuttle, steps shaky and breath labored. Behind the bushes a private bit of beach opened its arms and I fell headlong into a  prickly beach grass hug. My husband trotted after me, a pucker between his eyebrows, all our bags hanging off his shoulders.

“What do you need?” His hand patted me.

Pant, pant. “I don’t think…don’t know…” Pant, pant. “Just to be…still.”

Bewitching Trunk Bay

In full hypoglycemic attack now, I knew it was a matter of waiting it out. A balance of hydration and protein intake. And vomiting. Lots and lots of that. The grass didn’t mind, and I was grateful for the private spot.

“I think I’ll  walk over there,” he said, pointing to the waterfront shops, “and get you some water and look for a protein bar or something.” I nodded. No man should watch his wife vomit for hours, I don’t care how wonderful the marriage is.

He was gone a good while. My stomach felt better every time it heaved, and eventually I sat up and watched the lovely afternoon clouds bunch up in fluffy palettes of blue and gray over the ocean. A huge glob of sun emerged from behind them, draping all of us, sick and healthy alike, in gold. I blew out a huge sigh of relief. My husband appeared bearing granola bars, coconut milk, and water.

He folded himself  beside me on the grass. “I told the guy at the store how sick you are, he said coconut milk, it never fails.” He lifted the can and squinted at it. “Island remedy.”

I chuckled. The guy surely thought I had a hangover, which I didn’t. A combination of too-rich food, too much caffeine, not eating at regular intervals throughout the day…I knew better. But I was on vacation! Surely I could suspend the rules a little.

Apparently not.

I chugged the coconut milk anyway. In my condition, I would’ve chugged anything, and I ate the granola bars too, even though they probably had too much sugar, a big no-no for a hypoglycemic. I promptly threw everything up a few minutes later. I fell back on the ground and threw a hand over my face.

Coki Beach, snorkeling destination

“Just be still,” my husband said. To be still is his answer to any malady. “Just rest,” he said. I had no choice, and obediently rested. An hour later, on wobbly legs, we boarded the passenger ferry back to Red Hook. I tilted my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. My stomach crossed over heaveless, a fact I found delightful. The worst is over! My soul sang its deliverance. It’s over!

I didn’t factor in a raving maniac cab driver.

Taxi drivers pecked at passengers de-boarding the Red Hook ferry like vultures sampling a carcass. Their weatherbeaten vans rimmed the parking lot. My husband strode to the first in line, explained his wife was sick and could he drive gently and carefully? Short and squat with darting, dark eyes, the driver replied in broken Island English yes, of course and waved his hand at me, then the front seat. I got in and reclined the seat.

“You need ride? Room for more? Room for more!” The driver shouted to anyone within earshot.

One of the passengers in our already stuffed van told him there was no room.

“Always room, always room!” He continued to beckon people to no avail. “Why am I always the screwed one,” he muttered under his breath, and angrily jerked open the driver door. He roared from the parking lot in a huff of smoke. I told myself to be still. My hand groped along the door for the armrest and clutched. My eyes squeezed shut. You can do this, I told my stomach.

Three minutes into the ride, screams forced my eyelids apart. Our van was heading straight into the headlights of an oncoming car! I didn’t have the energy to scream. Our driver swerved out of danger.

“S’alright! No problem!” His voice was shrill, one hand lifted, dismissive; like he intended to make a rude gesture, but thought better of it. One of the passengers talked to our driver sternly, as if to a child. I was grateful for it.

The old van bounced around curves and bumped over potholes up and down the mountains. The driver drove like one of the islands’ famed Man O’ War birds; swooping, swerving, harassing and bullying  other drivers until they got out of his way.  He sniffed every ninety seconds, I timed it. Regular as a hiccup. I thought about meth addicts. I muttered, miserable, that I needed to stop. My husband, ever my valiant protector, screamed at the driver to stop. He did.

I fumbled with the door, got out and lurched into the grass, my husband fast behind. The driver came around and stuck something under my nose, like smelling salts. “This make you better,” he proclaimed. “Island remedy.” I wondered how many island remedies actually existed. I dutifully sniffed. It smelled like menthol. He rubbed it under my nose. “I take care of you, honey,” he said, all sweetness and light now. “Dr. Pete, that’s me!” He put his arm around me. “Five minutes, we be there. Five minutes, dat’s all. Trust Dr. Pete!”

My husband helped me back into the van. “You can do this for five minutes,” he whispered. “Just hang on.” I nodded. The door closed with a squeak and a clunk. I lifted a shaky hand to roll down the window. The driver took off with a heavy foot and a spurt of gravel.

Ten minutes later, I realized the driver was not only a horrible driver and a possible meth addict, but a liar as well. The van lurched around a sweeping drive in front of a Marriott Hotel quite a distance from where we were staying. My husband was furious.

“You said five minutes!”

The driver waved his hand and muttered. “Everybody out that needs Marriott! Sir, we be there in five minutes. Five minutes.” He smiled. His teeth were tobacco-stained. I had to get out of that van, I knew I would throw up all over it if I didn’t. I fiddled with the door, opened it, fell into the beautifully manicured lawn of possibly the most upscale Marriott on the planet and threw up again. The  world spun. I closed my eyes. The grass felt tropics-damp, and smelled of a fresh mowing. I hoped the guests could not see me. I snuggled into the grass and refused to move.

“Sir! Sir! I cannot wait!” The driver waved agitated, dark brown hands at his chariot. His eyes bulged out of his face. “I must get other guests to-”

“She can’t move! She’s sick!” I wanted to comfort my husband but my body begged to recline. I waved at him to come closer.

“Let him go, honey. I can’t take more of this right now.” I’d started shaking and quivering like a wild thing, in the throes of a full-on hypoglycemic attack. I knew it would pass, but the question was when? And how would I get back to Bluebeard Castle? The thought of another crazy cab ride inspired me to throw up again.

A large, black woman in uniform appeared like an angel, her eyes full of pity and kindness, pushing a wheelchair. “What you need, sir?” She looked at me, my husband. “Wheelchair help?”

My husband explained the situation. She wheeled me into the lobby, under a fan, in the middle of all the guests. My body shook and jiggled uncontrollably. My husband held my hand, resigned and patient. He’d been through it before, knew what to do, knew it would pass; but couldn’t speed it up. “Can we move me to somewhere more private?” My teeth chattered with all the shaking. They helped me into the wheelchair and moved me to a more private area where I could shake and shudder and throw up without curious glances. They brought me a barf bag and a peanut butter sandwich, which I’d requested. After two bites, I threw up again, and tossed the sandwich on a gleaming coffee table.

The angel showed up every ten minutes to check on us, suggested we go to the emergency room, she’d call the ambulance. We insisted it would pass, but looking at me, she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders and made huffing sounds. My husband slumped in a chair beside me, exhausted and worried. I took great, deep breaths, attempting to control the shudders and not hyperventilate. Sounds of chirpy, misbehaving children swirled around us, their parents admonishing, steps quick and fading down the hall. Random thoughts flashed through my mind, among them gratitude we’d not chosen the Marriott, a family-friendly resort hotel. Bluebeard Castle geared itself to empty-nesters which suited us fine.

After a humiliating two hours in Marriott’s lobby, I decided to travel the last leg. The Marriott angel assured us she’d located a cab that would be ours alone, the driver would drive as slowly as a sea turtle on land, and I could lay down in the back seat. True to her word, the cab ride was perfect. My husband generously tipped the driver, helped me to our room, where I fell on the bed. By that time it was nearly midnight. The shaking and shuddering had stopped, my stomach had heaved its last heave, and when I stood, the world had stopped spinning. I took a shower and slid into bed.

After recovering, grateful for every non-nauseous step! In Gladys’ Café in Charlotte Amalie.

The next day we immediately bought healthy food for my mini-snacks throughout the day. I gave up wine for the rest of the trip just in case, even though I’d only had one glass the first couple of evenings. I limited caffeine, refused all sugar, counted carbs, and promised God I would do  better with my diet, even though it was a VACATION.

Next time, rigid diet and constant hydration will be the order of the day. Also, carefully screened cab drivers and less wild, mountainous terrain. Also, I should amputate my stomach, which would be largely preferable to giving up a glass of wine now and then.

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