THE HEADACHE

The pain arrives as an unwelcome guest. After 35 years of battling this malady, it still arrives unexpectedly and randomly. I know most people don’t want to hear about anyone’s health issues. I have little doubt most readers won’t make it to the second paragraph. And I totally get that.

Yesterday morning, when I awakened and glanced at the clock, I got up to use the bathroom. It was earlier than I typically arose, but I attributed this anomaly to my bladder, just as I’ve done countless times before.

But just moments later, as I climbed back to bed, I said to myself the unwanted words, “Oh no, not again, its only been days since the last episode.” And so, the battle began. My skull started to throb, the pain radiated and surrounded my head, in that all-too-familiar pattern. It wasn’t my bladder that woke me up; it was the migraine. My nemesis. My enemy.

My first response to this intrusion is always the same: I will just ignore it. Simple as that. I will brush my hands of it and I’ll have a good day. I’ll work through it. Mind over matter. Yes, yes, I know the reader already fathoms this will likely not work, so why do I even try? I have a system, you see, and the first step is denial; I will thwart it, and not allow it mastery of me.

Of course, it is all for naught. Try as I might, I know I’ll be unable to go back to sleep. At this point, there were two critical issues: how long will the headache last, and how painful will it be.

My headaches last for days, usually from one to three days, but I hit a milestone recently where one lasted eleven days. Those were morbid days for me. Dark, and each day, darker. I overflowed with nausea and I felt unyielding misery. Yes, of course, I was depressed; who wouldn’t be? You’re glad you’re aren’t me, right?

I measure my pain threshold from one to ten, with ten the most painful. But the pain fluctuates, as does the longevity. My recent eleven-day binger was, on average, perhaps, an eight.

I’ve tried numerous medications over the years, both those as a preventive and those as an anodyne when I am under an attack. I’ve had modest success here and there, but they never prove effective over time. I inevitably return to fight another day. I strive to be a formidable warrior against my adversary. I so much want a truce. I tire of the fight.

What is especially vexing are the interludes, for perhaps two to three minutes at a time, when the pain subsides and I feel normal. These moments are cherished, but beguiling. I know deep down they are a mirage, an illusion, luring me to a comfort just around the bend, which I never find.

It’s hard not to feel cursed by an affliction I will almost certainly have the rest of my life. I am reminded that many people have far worse conditions than mine. Intellectually, I recognize this, but on my migraine days my intellect is nowhere to be found.

Just as we cannot know others’ minds, we cannot know others’ pain. We can describe our affliction, but we cannot take it off the shelf and show it to others. We are all locked inside, the doors bolted and bars across the windows. There is no escape.

I have met people who have never had a single headache, let alone a migraine. I wish it was contagious! But then I’d have nothing to complain about, talk about or write about. Maybe I’d actually miss my migraines. No, not a chance.

Despite my ongoing crucible of pain, I know I am fortunate to have a loving spouse, wonderful children, and grandchildren who make me smile just thinking of them. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, including my migraines.

Jeff Hyndman lives in an Atlanta suburb with his wife, their dog, and their cat, who pretty much runs the show. His essays have been published in "Chicago Free Press," "Change Seven Magazine," "The Moving Force Journal," and "You Might Need to Hear This.