When I go for the Technicolor yawn, I have been known to rest my right arm on the far edge of the biffy and place my forehead on my forearm. Thus, if I experience a further wave of nausea, I can barf with minimal effort. I am still kneeling on the floor, however.
My upper body is heavy enough to possibly hold me with my head in the toi-toi if I fainted or something, but my shoulders are too wide and my neck too short that I can see myself drowning. OTOH, there is a partition wall to my right in one of our relief stations, and I can envision an awkward enough position where I was wedged in place such that my lower body weight would not pull me out of danger. However, I would have had to puke up a considerable volume to raise the liquid level in the bowl high enough that I could drown in it.
I wonder if Ms. Vélez perhaps choked to death on her vomit (a la Jimi Hendrix) and it was incorrectly reported as drowning. Cause of death would be the same in both instances, ISTM. Or, perhaps she accidentally or deliberately flushed prematurely, and her hair dragged her in? I have no idea how long her hair might have been. but I imagine if you were doped up enough on barbiturates, you could be held in that position without being able to free yourself to drown, or asphyxiate, because you couldn’t wake up enough to clear your airways.
N.B. some time ago, I was unfortunate enough to experience the “exuding from both ends” kind of illness that lavenderviolet mentions. My idea was to take my seat on the potty, and then vomit thru my legs, thus killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.
This was fine in theory, but I failed to take into account the unlucky effects that chills have on one’s ability to vomit accurately. I also proved to my own satisfaction the unhappy fact that, once one has begun a simultaneous poop-and-puke, it is exceptionally difficult to stop it until matters have run their course for the moment. This is unfortunately true even if the combination of chills and flinching after puking on one’s own leg, cause one to fall off the toilet and onto the very cold, hard floor.
And then, as they say, you find out who your friends are. I am morally certain that my wife does, in fact, love me, as she did not run out of the bathroom screaming upon learning why I was in there so long, and why I stank like a wino after a three day bout with gangrenous bowel disease.
But I digress.
I believe Bricker has the right of it.
Glad you have recovered, Chez.