There's A Name For My Pain

I get migraines.

I started getting them in my 20s, actually, but whenever I complained of having a really bad headache, my well-intentioned friends and family would say things like "every headache is bad" or "you just have a low tolerance for pain" (completely untrue), or "that's not a headache, that's a hangover" (occasionally true).

After doing a little research on what a migraine is, and knowing that a large population of migraine sufferers are women and that it can be an inherited problem, I asked my mother if she'd ever had one. She had not, and as far as she knew, no one in her family ever had one, either. I got the same answer from my father, along with "well, maybe your aunts get them but they're both nuts, too so let's hope you didn't inherit ANYTHING from them, ok?" They were not exactly helpful, but probably accurate, responses.

I started keeping a record of when my migraines would settle in, how long they lasted, and any other notes I could make. I had already changed my diet as much as possible, including the very difficult decision to completely cut out caffeine. Also, I had already recognized a pattern of what kind of pain it was ... located in the front right part of my head above my eye socket that would also block half of my nasal passage, it was a constant pressure sort of an ache, not a pulsating one. Semi-sensitive to light and very sensitive to noise, I'd apply an ice pack (or, in the early years, a frozen bag of peas) to my forehead and just concentrate on not worrying about the pain. I couldn't read, and would have trouble keeping a train of thought or carry on a conversation. My taste buds would be off and things would taste sour or bland in my mouth. I'd get muddled in my head ... starting something as basic as brushing my teeth and stopping after putting toothpaste on my brush. I'd look in the mirror and notice my eyes were bloodshot so I'd add some eye drops and go sit down. And then I'd realize I hadn't brushed my teeth and try to start all over again.

The ache would come in waves, too. For a few hours, I was inhuman and unfit to do anything. And then I'd get about 40 "good" minutes. I could still feel the pain - but I was able to be well enough to make food, draw a bath, get my mail, and MAYBE drive ('tho only for a short distance). I knew the "good" time would come to a close so I made sure to be as organized as possible and to use that time wisely.

Years passed and - honestly - I just lived with it. 2003 was the deal-breaker, though. In 2003, I had a total of 25 migraine-laden days. October alone was responsible for 5 of those days. I had reached my limit.

With my family history and my "migraine diary" with me, I finally made a doctor's appointment. I saw the doctor, showed her my records, and said that this had become a quality of life issue for me. She reviewed the symptoms, discussed the pain, and came to the same conclusion I had already decided upon myself - yes, they were for sure migraines; yes, they were mostly cyclical to my body clock; yes, they were known as "cluster" migraines (which explained why I would have waves of pain followed by minutes of clarity); and yes, they were nearly unavoidable. The good news is that she thought they COULD be managed.

After a few different attempts at various medications, we settled upon a two-prong approach. I'd take a daily blood-thinner (even though I have low blood pressure already) to allow for better blood flow throughout my body and, when a migraine would occur, I'd take a self-dissolving mint-flavored pill, apply my cold pack, and wait for it to pass. For several years, this worked wonders. I'd even allowed myself to have the occasional glass of red wine - after avoiding it for a time because of migraine-inducing sulfites - and it was as 'tho I'd been given a second chance at life. Even when a migraine did occur (and they did, from time to time), they weren't the multiple-day long types I'd been having and the secondary medication seemed to tame them quickly. In 2005, for instance, I had just two days of migraines. In 2006, I had no migraine days at all. In the entire year. It was nothing short of shocking.

But the body evolves and adjusts. In 2009, I had 5 total days of migraines. This year has seen 5 days, too, and I'll likely have more before the year is up. I'm not being gloomy about that - for me, I see it as a high possibility and probable fact.

But yesterday ... yesterday actually scared me. The migraine I had yesterday was the grand-daddy of them all.

It started first thing in the morning. (Well, really during my sleep on Friday, but I digress.) I had a dry mouth, a stuffy nose and it felt like my brain was on fire. The Awesome Boyfriend came in with a cold pack ... as he'd do about 10 times throughout the day. The cat wouldn't leave my side and her constant purring was a comfort - the only constant sound that I could really tolerate. Breathing hurt. Turning over in bed was an effort. Getting to an upright position was about a ten minute ordeal. My eyes wouldn't open for long periods of time and I know that I wasn't communicating very well. When the Awesome Boyfriend asked if he should run to the coffee shop for my usual order, I could barely focus long enough to tell him not to bother. When he later asked if I wanted lunch, I mumbled something but I don't think it was an actual cohesive idea. I felt like I had experienced a stroke followed by my head being deep-fried. My skull felt blistered. I kept touching my forehead where the pain was centered to make sure it wasn't bulging.

I knew that I should take one of my migraine pills but eating something - even something that would help ease the pain - made me queasy. I lamented staying in bed on such a beautiful weekend day, but I knew that I was deep in the throes of a serious head-buster and there was nothing I could do but ride it out. I finally ate some fruit snacks - slowly - around 1pm - but couldn't even eat one small snack-sized bag of them and bit off tiny pieces of each one, letting it dissolve slowly in my mouth before swallowing, and made sure that I was keeping that bite down before taking another small nibble.

At 3pm, the Awesome Boyfriend suggested scrambled eggs and some toast and I decided to try to eat. I managed to slowly sit up, trudge to the couch (half-naked, as I couldn't imagine the amount of energy it would have taken to try to get dressed), wrapped myself in a blanket (on an 80-degree day) and got down a single scrambled egg and a slice of buttered toast.

At 6:40pm, the Awesome Boyfriend more strongly suggested I take a pill and, having successfully kept down the eggs, I finally acquiesced. I even managed to eat a few bites of dinner but, most happily, I had an appetite for the brown butter chocolate chip cookies he worked on all day. (I ate one. It was incredible ... even for my still slightly wonky taste buds.)

For anyone reading this who doesn't have experience with migraine headaches, all of this may sound rather exaggerated. And I could see where some would think that my tolerance for pain is, perhaps, not as high as it could be. If that's your opinion, you are of course very entitled to it. However I know that I am, if anything, UNDER-stating how much physical pain is involved with a migraine. I wouldn't wish a migraine on anyone. When in the clutches of a migraine, I dream of scooping out my eyeballs to ease the pressure. My long hair feels like the roots are embedding themselves deep into my brain and I consider cutting it all off, in case that will stop the ache. Honestly, if I didn't know that there were options to stop the pain, I could see where having migraines would cause a person to lose hope of experiencing good health again. As it was, I did have a light crying jag while trying to get myself together before eating dinner, even as I knew that the medication I had taken was slowly beginning to help me recover.

My Saturday ended well. By 8pm, the veil had lifted and I was able say that the migraine had passed. I woke up today and stepped outside for the first time since Friday evening. And though the day is a bit gray and it will likely rain soon, the air outside ... the trees moving in the wind ... the bright skies ... it all feels terrific once again.

The Decade Of "Zoom"

It was the Winter of 1989. I had a reliable, if not boring, vehicle already that was trouble-free. However, I started considering having another one in my life pretty much from the moment I saw the first advertisement. It was a two-page spread inside the front cover of a magazine that was flipping through. It was, and still is, the first time I took notice of each feature and detail, every carefully designed curve and even the color. "Coming soon, to a driveway near you", it read. I cut the advertisement out and tacked it behind my company-provided Macintosh SE30 against the office wall. I memorized it.

I never made any proclamation or announcement about it. It's not like I dialed the company-wide intercom system and said "Attention co-workers: One day, this will be mine." In fact, honestly it never occurred to me that I'd be able to set aside that kind of spare income. Affording a "second car", when one is living in a studio apartment and thinks of steamed rice and a Pepsi as "dinner", seems beyond nuts ... it becomes ridiculous.

But when the whole "dot com" age erupted and I was making ... well, ridiculous money, suddenly the numbers seemed within reach. And since the vehicle had proven not just popular but almost instantly "classic", I was intrigued. Captivated. Driven. And so it was that one Sunday morning I stopped thinking and started doing.

When the salesperson approached, it was as tho' I was not there. I was alright with being ignored - he didn't know that I'd be the buyer and the extra time allowed me to check out the bells and whistles without being "sold to". When it was made obvious that the purchase was mine to make, we went on a test drive. (It was, in my eyes, unnecessary. I knew as I saw the car that I'd be buying it but I felt it was only polite to go through the motions.)

I hadn't driven a stick in several years but the gears were close together (aka "a short throw") and the clutch was tight and low, just as I'd always imagined it would be. I drove us onto the freeway as the salesperson started with a pitch that I remember verbatim. "The passenger airbag can be turned off by putting your ignition key in this slot here, making it safe for a baby seat", he said, sounding satisfied with himself. "Right" , I said as I slipped easily into fifth gear, "because this is, after all, such a great 'Mommy' car." I could feel him look over at me and, from the corner of my vision, I noticed his face turn red from embarrassment at the idiocy of his statement.

He was quiet for about a mile or so and when I heard him take a breath to get ready for another "selling statement", I stopped him short with a speech I'd actually rehearsed. It was said in a confident voice, not snotty or arrogant - just factual. "Anything you say at this point will only kill this deal. I will be buying this car and I know what my offer will be. If you are unable to accept it, I know of two other dealerships who haven't made their numbers for the season and I'm sure they will happily take my money. Let's just enjoy this ride, alright?" And so we did, in silence.

We returned to the dealership, where he showed me the number he had prepared and I handed him my pre-written response card, with the number I'd prepared. Mine was only about $450 lower and I was proud that I'd done enough research - and was taken seriously enough - that the delta was that tight. A few "extras" were discussed ("I'm not paying $80 for floor mats when I can get them for $20 at the auto store near my house" was met with "Oh, we'll happily give you those - sorry, let me remove that") and we shook hands.

I glanced at the odometer when I got behind the wheel of the car I'd just signed for. The digital number showed the mileage as 23. (I would later pace out the route I'd taken as a test drive and it measured at a distance of 18 miles.) It had been over ten years since I saw that first advertisement. That first tease. Showing a beautiful coupe sitting in the summer sun while the country was in the midst of a rainy, cold Winter season. "Coming soon, to a driveway near you."

I turned the ... his ... wheel to the right and pulled into the driveway. "Here we are," I thought to myself. "Home at last."
*****************************************
Jake will turn 10 years old tomorrow. Earlier this month, his odometer turned over to 47,000 miles. I don't know if the person who put those first 5 miles on him enjoyed the experience, but I sure have enjoyed the other 46,995.

And, like the other man in my life, he was more than worth the wait.

Reading This Will Probably Make You Itch

See the title?

You've been warned.



So in the past ... oh - three months? ... I've been hearing a sound when I walk outside. It sounds like an automatic sprinkler system. The kind they use during the opening moments of "Caddy Shack" ... that "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada" kind of thing. And, given how there are many green areas and gardens here, it'd make sense to hear sprinkler systems being used.

Here's the weird part, tho - I hear it at night, like at 8:30, after the sun has set. Annnnd I hear it in the middle of the day, when no one in their right mind would be watering. In fact, I hear it all the time. Those of you who live (or have lived) anyplace further East than, say, Sacramento already know the noise. You're telling me the answer already. I know. I can hear you (just barely over the din of the noise) saying the word "cicada".

So ok - cicada it is. Haven't actually SEEN any, but yep - I've done some digging around on YouTube and that sound is for sure a cicada sound. More quick research says that they (generally) don't bother humans, aside from that sound that makes ya' wanna jab pencils into your eardrums. I say "generally don't" because sometimes, if they land on a human and chill there for a bit, they'll forget where they are (te-hee) and try to extract tree sap from the lucky person. Apparently that can hurt quite a bit (geez yeah - ya' think?!?), but it won't really harm a person.

Now since my East Coast move, I've dealt with crickets larger than the size of my big toes and ants that could, if motivated and organized, carry off small children, so it's safe to say that insects generally kinda freak me out. I don't like being surprised by them, mostly. (Yeah, those crickets last year. That was sooooome fun.) If I KNOW that an insect is around - well, insectS really, 'cause there is never just ONE - it's alright. Not "great", but "alright".

When I was gutting homes in Biloxi, there were walls just *filled* with huge cockroaches. Filled with 'em. As in, "when the moldy sheet rock was removed, the 'wall' appeared to still be there" kinda filled. But see - I KNEW they'd be there. So we created a system where ya'd pound on the wall a few loud times, yell "cockroach!!!!!" and then take the wall out and sure enough, they'd all fall to the ground to go find a new fun place to hide ... a cockroach version of "Hide-N-Seek".

Also lately - as in "over the past two weeks" - I've noticed small sawdust-looking mounds of dirt on the dry side of the back yard. "Gophers!" I thought, proud of myself for having solved this easy mystery (because, if this were the West Coast, that's what would be causing this mound). I mentioned it via text to The Awesome Boyfriend this morning. "Cicada Killer Wasps", responded The Awesome Boyfriend.

"Sure", I laughed out loud when I saw the text. I shared it with my friends at the coffee house, and it escaped my attention that they weren't laughing with me. "Enjoy killing 'em", I texted back, still giggling at his comment.

But he wasn't fooling. And a quick trip to the garden supply center confirmed exactly what he said. And more research on the Internet confirmed it more.

(A side note: I was pretty graphic about the cockroach thing above. I shoulda warned you, I guess, about planting that visual in your head. I apologize, and offer this advice as a means of making it up to you: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE OF CURIOSITY OR GENERAL WONDERINGMENT, RESEARCH PHOTOGRAPHS OF "Cicada Killer Wasps". Just ... don't. Seriously.)

Information states that they also don't really mess with humans. That they tend to be solo-type critters (uh huh but there's like 30 or more of 'em in the back yard, so not all THAT solo), the males don't sting (but they will swoop down on you and want to "inspect" you to make sure you're not a sexy cicada killer female wasp that they can mate with), the females have a stinger that they very rarely use (unless, yanno, you're trying to kill them) and even when they do, it feels "like a small pinch" (sure but again - 30 or more of 'em). Oh - and they're beneficial (because they're killing cicadas). And they also have short life spans (just six weeks).

And while I read and absorbed all this information ... while I understand it and it makes total sense ... my brain is still saying "blah blah yadda yadda blah - killer wasps. Killer freakin' wasps!!!!! No way, no how, no chance, not happening." Well, it's not actually "saying" that, it's more shouting it. Over and over. In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, it sounds a lot like "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada".

So yes, Awesome Boyfriend, my original response stands. Enjoy killing them.