I remember very clearly, being eight years old, and lying on my bed in our house in Idaho (where we lived briefly, right before my parents divorced), laid out with a migraine. Of course, I didn't call it that back then. I was well into my thirties before I was sure these nightmares could medically be called migraines. By the time I was eight, I already had my own name for them: "afternoon headaches." Not a sophisticated name, but highly accurate, and startlingly observant for a young child. I had already figured out the pattern, and the trigger. I knew without a doubt, that on afternoons when the sun was at an angle to cast that intense yellow light, I would get the coppery taste in my mouth, and needed to put my head down and be incredibly still. I don't know how seriously my parents took them, although I do think that day in Idaho, my mom knew I wasn't kidding. All the kids were playing outside, and I couldn't keep up with them. I came inside, and wanted nothing more than to block out the sound of them, but they were in the neighbor's yard, and the sound echoed into my room.
By the time I had kids of my own, the migraines were a constant companion. I didn't have them every day, but I could count on losing at least one or two days a month to them. And children who have never experienced one have absolutely no sympathy for someone in the grips of a migraine. It never failed, that on the days I was least capable of caring for myself, they became triply needy. I would beg them to go play on their own in their rooms, or outside with friends, but choose one or the other and don't ask for anything from me. On those days, both girls would turn into T.S. Eliot's Rum Tum Tugger--They were always on the wrong side of every door. When a house is closed up, windows and doors closed, every time someone runs in and out of the house, the opening and closing of doors changes the pressure in the whole place. Even when the kids didn't slam the doors behind them, I felt like I was being clubbed in the head by a baseball bat. And it never failed. If I was trying to keep my head from exploding, they decided they needed to bring all their toys outside to play with, one at a time. And of course, there would be questions. Can we go to someone's house? Can she come here? Can we eat? Can we play movies? Invariably, something would happen that required more active parenting, and I was pushed until I was yelling to be left alone. Yelling while having a migraine is as unpleasant as it sounds. Worse, really.
I've tried all kinds of things to deal with them over the years. Naps are free and don't make me feel like a drug addict. Prescription meds vary in their efficacy. Over the counter cocktails of acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine are great, and super cheap, but are bad news on an empty stomach, so they're only good on the days I can eat. I know people who have the fortitude to avoid all their triggers, but I'm too fond of things like coffee, chocolate, and red wine, so I would rather just have them in moderation, on a regular basis. I feel bad for my family and my house plants at those times of year when the light is always angled and yellow, and I have all the blinds closed and heavy velveteen drapes blocking out all sources of it. I was doing really well, having very few migraines, for much of this year. I must have removed a trigger from my diet or from the house, and not realized it. So what has changed since Thursday? What did I do differently, to give me three days of a low-grade headache that is only slightly relieved by ibuprofen? Dammit. The only way to figure it out is to deep clean the house and refrigerator, isn't it? Sometimes it's hard being the only grownup around here.
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