The Writer’s Journal: Migraines

Migraines.

It starts as a speckled blur behind my vision.

Soft pinching, isolated throbbing. 

I only have a few minutes before it’s going to drastically go down hill from here. 

Breathe slowly. Keep calm. Warn my husband. The new routine I can’t live without, I wouldn’t want to live without again. 

I think back on all the times I had to brace for this alone. Pain so excruciating I wanted to just die on that black and white checkered floor. 

I flash back to the first time my vision blurred, I remember how I used to not have that warning sign: I was twenty, in college. I was sitting at my desk, reading a passage in a book when suddenly, I couldn’t read the page clearly. I panicked and rushed out of class. I had a forty-five minute bus ride home with two transfers. I tried to focus on the music pounding out of my iPod, anything to keep myself from getting worse. Every lurch of the breaks, every stop, every red light felt like eternity. I was terrified that I wouldn’t make it home. Just as it began to feel like it was impossible, my stop came up and I hurled myself out of the bus as quickly as I could. I threw up in the park as I was walking home, just thankful to be in my neighborhood. I dragged myself up the hill and into my house. Back the black and white checkered floor. 

I refocus to now. 

Warn my husband. 

I’m glad he’s home right now. He prepares. Grabbing two wash cloths, running them under cold water. Getting me a glass of water. Slowly stroking my hair until I tell him I’m dizzy. 

The pain grows as the minutes crawl by. Searing pain scorches my temples, my hands tremble. Pressure builds behind my eyes, I become nauseous. 

The porcelain throne isn’t as comfortable from this angle, on my knees, bracing myself. Spinning. 

I try desperately to sleep but my body won’t let me. I can’t keep water down, but it’s better than dry heaving. Multiple stumbling trips to the bathroom, my dogs following, worried, trying to comfort me. 

The youngest wiggles his head onto my lap as I fall back onto the bathroom floor. Stomach acid has burned my throat. It hurts to talk, to swallow.

If only I had a towel, I would sleep here on the cold tile floor. 

I try to breathe slowly and close my eyes. I remind myself this will pass. I force myself up and back into bed. 

Eventually I find blimps of sleep. Two wet cloths cling to my clammy skin. One on my forehead, one on my neck. The fan on full blast sends chills down my arms, it feels relaxing. 

Five hours later (if I’m that lucky), I’m slowly waking up. I check before I open my eyes. No throbbing, no pinching. I open my eyes. No blur. 

It’s gone but not over yet. I rise slowly. I find my saltine crackers and water. If I can keep this down, I can have soup. 

Migraines. 

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Until next time,

M.E.