Do You Suffer From Migraines?

(mine are chronic)

Writing about migraines was something I started doing during the pandemic when I found myself flooded with ideas for essays of all kinds. This short essay originally appeared in URevolution among my earlier publications from that period:

Night Words

It's 3 a.m. and I'm wide awake despite a heavy dose of Trazodone which usually works to keep me asleep most nights.  My husband is breathing softly on the other side of the bed in our room with light-blocking shades.  Ditto our two Westies who are huddled together in the middle of the bed like litter mates.  They stir briefly when I wake up, but since I have barely moved, they just sigh and fall more deeply asleep. 

I almost feel like an intruder on their privacy, but the real intruder is my migraine.  At least I think that's what it is.  I have the familiar pressure behind my left eye, so I do a slow checklist.  Nausea?  No.  Dizziness?  No.  Light sensitivity—well, that one doesn't apply in this situation.  Possible sinus headache?  No. The pain is just on one side.  So even though it woke me up, it's not severe.  Yet.

***

My migraines are chronic and have haunted me for twenty years through different treatments and medications. 

Some months are better than others, but it's more and more rare that I have to go back to bed during the day and try to sleep it off or at least sleep through it.  Even so, they disable me, just like the one I had a week before writing this. 

In the fierce grip of a migraine, it's hard to read a book, look at any kind of screen, or edit a client's writing.  I don't want to talk to anyone or drive when I'm besieged. And one of my favorite rituals, walking the dogs as a couple, isn't remotely possible.  I feel hemmed in, clouded, almost bewitched.

Pre-pandemic, I wouldn't be able to trek to our health club where I had many old friends and always made time to chat.  I also had to cancel lunches with friends and any kind of travel in-state or out-of-state.  In the midst of a migraine, I don't even want to play a short tug of war with our younger Westie who may be five years old but still acts like a puppy and needs active play time in the evening, on top of however many walks we can do during the day.  He's feisty but sensitive: When a migraine knocks me out and I go back to bed, he'll jump on and try to lick my face or just lie down next to me, clearly tuned in to my distress.

***

Sometimes I wonder if I could possibly have inherited this chronic burden from my mother who used to complain about headaches but never saw a doctor about them.  She just descended into her deeper-than-usual depression and I knew not to annoy her because she might blow up. 

Me, I tend to be calm (and resigned) when visited by a migraine because they're so familiar.  I alert my husband: "Don't expect much of me today—and if I get weird, it's not anything about you."  That's a familiar warning and helps me feel connected.  He understands.

***

Continuing my 3 a.m. checklist, I realize that I'm in totally familiar territory: the temperature has dropped this week into the single digits and weather changes of almost any kind can bring on a migraine. I feel lucky that the migraine didn't come sooner and isn't worse. And grateful that I have a special escape from what's happening to me: I can write about it. 

So I do.  But I don't want to face a glowing screen or try to hold a pen.  I let the words build in my head. From long experience, I know they will still be there in the morning.  And my husband, whose head always seems clear, will be eager to copy edit whenever I'm done.  That's some comfort, anyway.

Image by Mohamed Hassan from Pixabay