Migraines

My first migraine came when I was eleven years old. It overstayed its welcome by four days. Worst visitor ever.

I lay on my bed, the Baron Ron Herron's voice interspersed with music. I lay as still as possible, because moving brought stabbing pains in place of the monotonous ache. My mom came in occasionally bearing gifts: aspirin-laced Coca-Cola. It didn’t help the headache, but it lifted my spirits. I don’t remember the nights. I don't remember my sister being around either; maybe she slept in another room.

I didn’t know that what I had was a migraine. Even when I had my second at 15. This one came with the aura, that circle of brilliant, shimmering triangles bursting in on my vision as I took a math test. The pain and nausea came 30 minutes later. I didn’t have another until I was 39. Then they came regularly. At least once a month, sometimes as often as three a week. I intended to go to seminary after finishing my BA and I worried I wouldn’t be able to hack it. Once I moved to Chicago, the migraines all but disappeared.

Now they come two at a time every few months. Even that really messes with my life and plans. Migraines cripple me. My whole body gets sick. Imitrex takes away the pain in my head, but not the nausea when I stand up, my sore throat, or the pain in my muscles and joints. When I had Vicodin, I could carry on, but I no longer have Vicodin. Instead, I get chocolate – anything chocolate – and coke and either read or listen to comedy. One gift migraines have given me – four Calvin and Hobbes treasuries. There’s a silver lining in this cloud after all.