I thought it was a bursting cyst, but I’m afraid the endometriosis might be back.
And today, the sharpening of sounds; my own sons’ voices like rusty nails scraping against the insides of a glass bucket. Music like pounding hammers falling faster. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata might just as well be a construction site.
The boyos were being three-going-on-four. Mommy, he hit me! Mommy I want I want I want.
I couldn’t. Just…couldn’t.
So I lay down on the couch, the migraine pushing me down, shoving light and noise in my face. I hate doing this, in front of them. I don’t want to scare them. I don’t want them to think it’s their fault.
Migraines are hereditary. My mom used to get them. I remember being my sons’ age, playing in the family room, when she collapsed in the kitchen. I crept up to her, and in that I’m-three-and-the-center-of-the-universe sort of way, I thought I’d caused her fall, by being too loud. I touched her shoulder, then crept away to my rocking horse, hoping the soft sound would wake her. Afraid the soft sound would wake her.
She stood up finally, and looked in at me, and I didn’t understand what her look meant, until now.
My boyos, my sweet boyos. Declan came up to the couch, stroked my hair.
“Do you have a headache, Mommy?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll rub it away.”
And Jack ran around and around the couch, and I made sure he saw me smile, that he knew he was helping too, in his own way with his antics.
But the pain. I couldn’t help it.
“What’s on your cheek, Mommy?”
“That’s just water, sweetie.”
They haven’t seen me cry. Not until now.
I’m so afraid they’ll think it’s their fault.
Ok. It’s later, and I’ve had four cups of coffee, three aspirin, two Advil and a long hot shower. And a partridge in a pear tree. I feel better.
Really, it’s the shower that does it. I turn on the hot full-blast, until my sweat mingles with the water. I find that if I can raise my body temperature, I can short-circuit the migraine. But there are side effects.
Stepping out of the shower, I immediately lose my breakfast. It’s a good sign.
After that, I feel the headache let go, like a python loosening its grip on a rabbit. I’m left feeling completely drained, despite half a pot of coffee. I sit on the couch, my head back, pillow under my feet, and drift. I want to sleep so badly. I want sleep like Romeo wants Juliet. But there are the boyos, and I’m waiting for a phone call from a friend. We have plans today. Otherwise I would have ridden this thing out.
And there’s the call.