Not Giving in to My Phobias

I am a 46-year-old male and, in my mind at least, as macho as the next guy. But I’ll admit there are things I fear. Thanatophobia- the fear of death- is not among them. Okay, maybe I’m a little antsy about kicking the bucket and buying the farm but I’m not petrified because my intentions are to be transported due north wearing a white robe of some sort if things go as planned. I am, however, not immune to fear. I’ll be up front and let you know right away that I’m gonna leave you hanging at the end of this column. But I will address one of my fears this week and trust that you’ll respect my transparency. I’m afraid of throwing up. Some people stick their fingers down their throat and let ‘er rip every time they get a little queasy and immediately they feel better. No big deal. For me, I’d rather be miserable for 52 straight hours than vomit. I can’t explain it but a quick search on the internet let me know I wasn’t alone. Apparently I suffer from an extremely mild case of emetophobia. Yes, it’s a real phobia and I’m not ashamed of it. I have brethren and sistren out there whose cases are a lot worse. I date it all back to an ugly incident in high school when I threw up in the courtyard outside the cafeteria in front of the entire junior class and a few seniors. I had won the milk drinking contest a few minutes earlier but had to forfeit the victory when the blowing of chow incident occurred, which was prohibited under the previously determined masculine rules of said contest. Everybody looked and everybody laughed. And to make it worse, I had chosen to drink chocolate milk. Uggggh. Flash forward thirty years to this summer and I’m taking two of my sons to Carowinds theme park for the day. We decided to get season tickets so it was supposed to be the first of many trips. On the morning of our first visit, I ate a piece of toast and drank water. I took 1.5 Dramamine pills and carried along Ibuprofen and Tums as backup. I was fine on the first few rides but the one where they insist on flipping and twisting my body got to me. Especially when halfway through, the coaster stopped and did it again backwards, banging my delicate head against the headrest in the process. I did not toss my cookies, but I felt like a cat who had gone through the tumble cycle in the dryer. And due to my emetophobia and the throbbing between my ears, I sat out the rest of the day as the boys rode the Intimidator thirteen straight times. And to add insult to injury, I hadn’t taken the less drowsy formula Dramamine so I plopped on a park bench next to somebody’s grandmother and fought sleep, nausea, and embarrassment for three hours. Undeterred, I would later return to Carowinds. Six more times to be exact. How’s that for conquering your fears. Eventually I would conquer a fear of mine even greater than upchucking. And in doing so, I would cross off another item on my personal “To do before I die” (Bucket List). Fear not, I’ll fill you in next week. (Skip to next week)--------------------------------------------------------------- When I left you last week, I was about to conquer one of my greatest fears. If you remember, I had somehow avoided throwing up after getting light-headed on some of the flipping and twisting rides at Carowinds. But emetophobia (the fear of vomiting) is not the greatest fear I face at an amusement park. I am particularly unfond of heights. (I realize unfond is not a word but I was due for a made up word so that’s what I’m going with). Acrophobia, it’s called. But other than the throwing up thing, I tend to seek out ways to conquer my fears instead of running from them. Therefore, on each of my seven trips to Carowinds this summer, the first ride the boys and I ran to every single time was the Drop Tower. Strapped into a seat, transported upward to a height of 160 feet, and dropped at 56 miles per hour. The boys and I must have ridden the Drop Tower at least fifty times this summer. And it scared me less and less every time. At one point, on a particularly uncrowded day, I snuck over to the Drop Tower while the boys rode the Hurler over and over. (Recall that I avoid rides that make you throw up so I wasn’t about to ride one named the Hurler). I rode the Drop Tower three times in a row by myself. Literally. There was nobody else on the entire ride and nobody in line. So the three high school-aged attendants watched as a 46-year-old man ascended and descended over and over just for the heck of it. At the highest point of the Drop Tower, one is afforded a full view of the granddaddy of all thrill rides. And I shuddered each time I viewed its majesty. The granddaddy of which I speak is something called the Xtreme Flyer, the closest thing to bungee jumping you can do without diving off a bridge. I balked on the first six trips when it came to the Flyer. “Too expensive,” I told my boys. “Mom would get mad if she knew we risked life and limb,” I opined. “You’re just making excuses, Dad,” they said. “You’re chicken.” Fighting words. We promised Mom just before leaving on our seventh trip to Carowinds that we would stay clear of the Xtreme Flyer. I think she knew we were lying. A few hours later, as the cable attached to my boys and me lifted us to what seemed like the height of the Sears Tower, I openly questioned the functionality of those brain cells within me whose sole responsibility is to secrete good judgment. And just before we plummeted, the finer parts of my life flashed through my mind. We yelled, we laughed, we flew. It was the most fantabulous ride of my life. I’m still not a fan of heights, but they don’t scare me anymore. It wasn’t a bungee jump, but I’m crossing it off my “To Do Before I Die List” because it’s my bucket list and I get to make the rules. If you’re skeptical, go to Youtube and type in “Stroupe Boys Fly at Carowinds.” Though she would never admit it, I think Mrs. Stroupe was impressed. At least until I told her what it cost. (45 bucks plus $10 for the video.)