The third time I threw up my dinner in the morning, nearly 14 hours after eating it, my husband suggested that maybe, just maybe, something was wrong.
I didn’t just have the stomach flu. I was 22, newly married, stressed beyond belief in a graduate program for teaching, and the flu I thought I had wasn’t going away.
I was sick so often it soon became routine: wake up, throw up, go to class. No, I wasn’t pregnant. By the time my Master’s program ended, I had been diagnosed with gastroparesis, a “broken stomach.” Essentially, my stomach could not digest food properly, holding onto every meal I ate instead of letting them pass through my digestive tract.
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