The first time Emma threw up, she was a newborn. It shot out of her nose and mouth at the same time. The nurses said it was just a formula sensitivity.
By three, she was still vomiting. They said it was a dairy issue. By four, it was stomach pain so intense she stopped eating. Constipation, they said. Laxatives made it worse.
By five, it became a nightmare. She would vomit for days—so violently she’d collapse in my arms between episodes. Too weak to stay awake, too sick to rest. I held her as she sobbed, begging me, “Why does this keep happening to me?” And I had no answer.
The first ER visit, they rehydrated her and sent us home. The second time, she was so dehydrated, her veins collapsed. They pinned her down, forced an IV into her tiny foot while she screamed. I whispered, “I’m so sorry, baby.” I cried with her. I promised her I’d fix it.
But no one could tell me what was wrong. No one could stop it.
I had to fight. I had to become the mother who yelled at doctors, who refused to be ignored. Because if I didn’t, my daughter would keep suffering. And no one would care.
I wish I could say I found a cure. I wish I could say she’s better now. But some nights, I still watch her sleep, terrified of when the next wave will come.
And the worst part? No one sees it. No one understands.
Maybe now, someone will.
The turning point came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I was sitting in yet another specialist’s office, holding Emma’s hand as she leaned against me, pale and exhausted.
The doctor, a kind but visibly puzzled gastroenterologist, flipped through her chart for what felt like the hundredth time. “We’ve ruled out everything obvious,” he said, his tone apologetic. “But I want to try one more test. It’s rare, but there’s a condition called cyclic vomiting syndrome. It’s not well understood, but it fits her symptoms.”
I clung to those words like a lifeline. Finally, a name. A direction. But the doctor warned me: “Even if it is CVS, there’s no cure. We can only manage the symptoms.”
I didn’t care. I just needed to know what we were fighting.
The test came back inconclusive, but the doctor decided to treat her as if she had CVS. He prescribed a combination of anti-nausea medication, a strict diet, and stress management techniques. For a while, it seemed to help. The episodes became less frequent, less severe. I started to hope.
Then, one night, it all came crashing down.
Emma woke up screaming, clutching her stomach. Within minutes, she was vomiting again, her small body convulsing with the force of it. I rushed her to the ER, my heart pounding. This time, they admitted her. As I sat by her hospital bed, watching her sleep fitfully, I felt the weight of helplessness crushing me. I had done everything I could. Why wasn’t it enough?
The next morning, a nurse I’d never seen before came in to check on Emma. She was older, with kind eyes and a calm demeanor. As she adjusted Emma’s IV, she glanced at me and said, “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
I laughed bitterly. “I haven’t.”
She nodded, as if she understood. “I’ve seen a lot of kids like Emma,” she said. “Sometimes, it’s not just physical. Sometimes, it’s emotional too.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She hesitated, then said, “Has anyone talked to you about the possibility of trauma? Sometimes, kids who’ve been through something stressful—even if it doesn’t seem like a big deal to us—can develop physical symptoms. It’s called psychosomatic illness.”
I shook my head. “Emma hasn’t been through anything traumatic. She’s just a little girl.”
The nurse gave me a gentle smile. “Sometimes, it’s not what we think of as trauma. It could be something small, something we don’t even notice.”
Her words stuck with me. That night, as I sat in the dim hospital room, I started to think back. Had anything happened that could have triggered this? Emma had always been a sensitive child, but nothing stood out.
Then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me.
When Emma was two, we’d been in a minor car accident. No one was hurt, but she’d been terrified. For weeks afterward, she’d had nightmares and clung to me constantly. I’d assumed it was just a phase, but what if it had affected her more deeply than I realized?
The next day, I asked the doctor if we could consult a child psychologist. He agreed, and within a week, Emma was sitting in a cozy office, playing with toys while the psychologist observed her. After a few sessions, the psychologist called me in. “Emma’s a bright, empathetic child,” she said. “But she’s also carrying a lot of anxiety. It’s possible that her body is expressing that anxiety through physical symptoms.”
It was a hard pill to swallow. I had spent years searching for a physical cause, and now I was being told it might be emotional. But I was willing to try anything.
We started therapy sessions for Emma, focusing on helping her express her feelings and manage her anxiety. Slowly, I began to see changes. She started talking more about her fears, her worries. She even drew pictures of the car accident, something she’d never mentioned before.
And then, something incredible happened. The vomiting episodes became less frequent. When they did happen, they were milder, shorter. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but it was progress.
One evening, as we sat on the couch reading a book, Emma looked up at me and said, “Mommy, I’m not scared anymore.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I’m so glad, baby.”
She smiled, her little face so full of trust. “You fixed it.”
I shook my head. “No, sweetheart. You fixed it. You’re so brave.”
It’s been a year since that conversation, and while Emma still has occasional episodes, they’re nothing like before. She’s thriving in school, making friends, and even trying new foods. Every day, I’m amazed by her resilience.
This journey has taught me so much. It’s taught me to listen—not just to doctors, but to my child. It’s taught me that sometimes, the hardest battles are the ones we can’t see. And it’s taught me that even when the world feels like it’s against you, there’s always hope.
If you’re reading this and you’re going through something similar, don’t give up. Keep fighting. Keep asking questions. And most importantly, keep loving your child through it all. You are their greatest advocate, their safe place, their hope.
And if this story resonated with you, please share it. You never know who might need to hear it today.
Life Lesson: Sometimes, the answers we seek aren’t where we expect to find them. True healing often requires looking beyond the surface and addressing the unseen wounds. Never underestimate the power of love, patience, and persistence.
