A New Bombshell Symptom Has Entered the Villa

Just when I thought my body and I had reached some sort of agreement, my chronic illness said: Surprise, babe.

A new bombshell symptom has entered the villa: projectile vomiting.

Yes, you read that right. We now have a new contestant in the villa: sudden, unannounced, very glamorous puking.

No warning, no lead-in, no suspenseful music—just: hello! I’am here.

Brought to you, of course, by migraines so intense I feel like someone is trying to air out my brain through my eye sockets.

Because apparently, it wasn’t enough to have headaches that could stun a small elephant. No, now my body has decided to add spontaneous puking to the roster. Very exclusive.

Every time I think: Okay, maybe I’m learning how to live in this alien body, it adds a new feature.
It’s like getting an unasked-for software update that makes the system even worse.

As an Italian woman, I have a naturally fiery temperament. I can be classically dramatic. Think Sophia Loren waving a cigarette. ( i am waving my new pill case)

But there is nothing glamorous about vomiting into a public bathroom sink at 3:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.

And it’s embarrassing. Because, naturally, someone always asks:

“Wait… are you pregnant?”

No, Deborah.
I’m not pregnant!
I’m just trapped in a body that, after 27 years, has apparently decided it no longer remembers how to function.

Zurich summers aren’t helping. Forget “sunny city-girl aesthetic.” We’re talking weeks of rain, humid frizz, and the kind of long sleeves that make you wonder if you live in a permanent November.

So I stand in my kitchen staring at the counter, asking myself the very important life questions: Hot chocolate or iced latte? Because yes, it’s technically July, but no, it doesn’t feel like it.

The thing about projectile vomiting is that it makes you rethink everything.
Your bag, for example.
I never wanted to be the girl who carries a pharmacy with her. But now? My bag contains:

• Anti-nausea pills,

• Headache pills,

• A bottle of water,

• A snack (because apparently “eating something” is everyone’s first suggestion when you look pale).

I’m basically a walking Swiss Army knife of medical supplies.

The most surprising thing about all this, though, is how much work it is just to stay “okay.”

The hydration police want 2–3 liters of water a day. Meanwhile, I’m over here forcing down 1.5 like I’m training for the Olympics.
Exercise? That too. I started with 15–30 minutes of walking a day, and now, somehow, I can do 45 minutes to an hour—on a treadmill or outside when Zurich gives us that rare gift called “weather that doesn’t suck.”

They say small steps matter. And, weirdly, they do.

And since we’re keeping a scoreboard of symptoms versus coping, I finally got that camera I talked about in a previous post.

Photography wasn’t in the plan. But it turns out it’s nice to have a reason to leave the house and just… look at things.
No aesthetic Instagram shoots, no “content.”
Just candid photos of moments that make me feel something.

It’s quiet, grounding. And it makes me feel—dare I say it—normal, for a minute.

To keep myself distracted (and because I am clearly a glutton for projects), I’ve been trying out new recipes lately. The kind of things you make when you have time and want to feel like the main character in a Tuscan cookbook: peach and burrata bruschetta, homemade gnocchi—yes, actual gnocchi, which I will brag about until further notice. And while I’m kneading potato dough or flipping bread on a pan, I’m usually on a call with my mom.

Her version of a “quick chat” is always over an hour long, which means I can get through a whole treadmill walk while she updates me on every possible drama: which cousin got a new job, which aunt said what at dinner, how many new doctor’s appointments my grandparents have lined up this week.

It’s funny. I miss them all. And I know that when I go home in a few weeks, my vacation will basically consist of helping Nonno with his phone and his printer (“It doesn’t work!”—spoiler: he turned off the Wi-Fi), sweating through long summer afternoons, and sitting at the beach.

And honestly? I can’t wait.