The Trouble with Migraines

I had to laugh at myself last night as I lined up some supplies on my headboard to take to bed with me: a glass of water, a small snack, and some pain reliever.  See, people who don't have migraines just don't understand.  Most people, when they get a headache, just drink some water, maybe take a pill, and then continue on with their day.  Migraines are debilitating.  The whole world, everything but the pain, screeches to a halt, disappearing in the haze of agony.  The pain is piercing, throbbing, sensitive to light, sound, and motion, and then there's the nausea.

When I wake up with a migraine, I'm faced with a dilemma: if I want the pain to go away, I need to take some medication, but if I take the medication on an empty stomach, I become scary shaky and dizzy (just ask Chip if you don't believe me).  If I get up to get a glass of water, my medicine, and a snack, the motion causes a surge of nausea.

Yesterday, in the dark of the early morning, I sat motionless in my bed for several minutes after my foray to bathroom and kitchen to gather my supplies, willing the nausea to go away, debating whether to take my meds now or wait until the inevitable nausea forced a return trip to the bathroom to bow to the porcelain throne.

Two pills, separated by 20 minutes, each followed by desperate trips to reach the bowl in time, and finally the nausea abated, leaving me exhausted, lying in my bed with a cold pack at my neck and another on my forehead, praying that the pain would go away before the first kid needed to be escorted to his bus stop.  Praying that the dizziness would be gone before I needed to drive the third kid to preschool.

I definitely did not want to repeat that experience this morning, so that's why I carefully gathered my supplies last night, giving a chuckle because I knew that my headache probably would not return this morning, but also knowing that I wouldn't be laughing in the morning if it did.

In case you were wondering, today started much better than yesterday.  I did not need my supplies this time.  But perhaps I will begin storing my medication at my bedside--the bathroom is too humid a place anyway.  And perhaps I will stash a little snack and a bottle of water there as well, for next time.  Because I do know this: there will be a next time.