Some people have a favorite place they return to annually, a place like the beach, mountains, a special Bed & Breakfast, or other vacation spot. They might like this place so much they go twice a year, or three times. I, too, have a place I visit three times a year. It is not by choice.
“Here we are in Migraineville!” announces unthoughtful Brain, flashing annoying bright lights that make things worse, “Welcome!”
I know where we are, Brain doesn’t have to give it a name. I walk in the bedroom, pull the shades, and get intimately acquainted with my Tylenol bottle. I grip a cool wet washcloth, and place it on my head with my shaky hands. Go away go away go away, I say like a Mantra. Please please please go away. I lie down and pray for sleep.
Brain chuckles. I don’t think so! This detour is at least three hours long, last time was six.
I close my eyes, cringing at Brain. Stop stop stop. I feel tears in my tired eyes, tears of pain.
I desperately attempt to claw my way out of Migraineville, utterly spent. The Husband has been at work all day, he has no idea.
“You look terrible!” he says by way of a cheerful greeting.
“I had a bad headache,” I whimper. Brain scoffs and says, “Had? We’re still there.”
“Oh, Sweetie,” says The Husband in the same sympathetic voice reserved for when I accidentally step in dog poop in my new suede shoes, “you poor thing.”
He gives me a tight hug that does not help and actually might make the detour longer.
“Go back to bed,” he says supportively. “And you really should see a doctor to get some migraine medication.”
Brain slaps his words out of the air. Brain knows what happens at the doctor’s office.
Doc: How are you doing?
Doc: Any health issues or concerns?
Doc: Great, well ... all your tests look good, so we’ll see you next year then!
Brain is not very good about reminding me of my detours to Migraineville after the fact. Brain likes to pretend they never happened.
I do not remember that I get migraines when I am face-to-face with a trained professional that can offer assistance in treating them: a doctor. No. Like the five-year-old that needs prompting about what happened at school this very morning (was it art? music? math?), Brain chooses to focus on happy things: Ooh, a new season of Top Chef is starting tonight!
The Husband walks in to check on me. “I brought you a new cold washcloth,” he whispers softly. At least he remembers.
("Migraine Of Vehemence")