The last time I had a migraine was in college, when I’d been given pain medication for the removal of all four of my wisdom teeth. There was no swelling. I ate eggplant parmigiana. But as a reaction to the drugs, I thought my cranium might split open, as I spent the weekend on the bathroom floor, my head covered in wet green towels. And this weekend, with the loveliest of company in our guest room, for no reason at all, it happened again.
When I say “no reason of all,” mind you I merely mean no drugs were involved… if you don’t consider two and a half glasses of wine “drugs.” Two full glasses of a Pinot Noir from Oregon, then, in all truth, I can’t quite remember how far along I got with my Sauvignon Blanc, but I’m guessing not that far? I was busy rounding first base with my bread pudding.
Here’s the bitch of it: I drank plenty of water, and come 7am, when the rest of the house was asleep, I popped up, changed diapers, and whirled up some breakfast for a sleeping house. I constructed breakfast faces for the taters: smiling banana lips, a mini-bagel nose with eggs, French toast stick eyes, and strawberry ringlet hair. For the men, I carved through fresh English muffins, turned them “inside out,” lathered on Béarnaise, added thick-sliced Gruyere, chives, egg, and the thinnest rounds of Honey crisp apples I could manage, then threw ‘em onto a sandwich press. The women kept to fruit, eggs, and coffee, and in between it all, the kitchen was clean, hair was swept into pigtails, stories were read, and the day was spread open before us. And then, I’d just go lie down for a minute…which turned into the rest of the migraine weekend from Hades.
There was a point, I was sure, I’d need to go to the hospital. I must be dying. There was so much pressure; my entire scalp and everything inside, felt as if it was ready to cleave open. The Excedrin Migraine medicine didn’t help. I spent the day staring at the ceiling with a garbage bag close at hand for when the vomiting began again. What an awesome way to spend time with your friend and her boy.
At least come Sunday I was up for getting some breakfast, even if I was still fighting the urge to collapse. The afternoon turned brighter when we had a family snuggle on the sofa, retro-sleeves of popcorn in hand, breakfast balloons tied to the beans’ wrists, as we watched with them, for the first time, The Wizard of Oz, the whole way through. I thought for sure they’d cry when the terrifying flying monkeys came on screen, but there were no tears. Except when the wizard took off in his hot air balloon, leaving Dorothy with no way to return home, Kind Sir began to sob. Our sweet sensitive boy couldn’t imagine a world without home, and neither can I.
3 YEARS AGO: Barfly
4 YEARS AGO: Talk To Me