Unofficial migraine types: the Godzilla

Completely unofficial, made-up migraine types: the Godzilla!

When the migraine doom descends on my house, as it has fairly often in 2015, I sometimes enter this almost-comical phase wherein I feel like Godzilla.

Usually this happens during the tail end of a multi-day attack, but sometimes if I get hit with a really ferocious migraine after an otherwise healthy week, it can happen, too.

Many of you have noticed that your physical coordination is off during a migraine attack (even during the prodrome and postdrome phases), and many of us have bonded over the frustrating symptom of not being able to find the right words when we are speaking or writing. Times like these, we can testify firsthand that migraine is not just a headache but a complicated neurological illness that results in a lot of symptoms.

Now imagine this: The Migraine Godzilla tries to open her eyes one morning only to realize that, for the third day in a row, she has awakened with the same persistent migraine.  Her head is throbbing gently—the pain isn’t bad as long as she lies still.  She is about to ask her husband to bring her the Zomig from the bathroom cabinet before remembering that the reason she woke up was an intense need to pee, so she’d better get up herself.

She throws the covers back with way more force than intended: this action tosses her phone (which doubles as an alarm clock/snooze machine) across the bed and onto the unsuspecting body of her husband, who says “ow” rather unhappily.  The Migraine Godzilla can’t muster the strength of thought to apologize, so she swings her legs over the bed while kind of grunting to Jim—her way of apologizing without having to move her mouth.  She walks the five feet to the bathroom, fumbling with the doorknob as if she has gigantic furry gloves on—for a moment, in fact, she wonders muddily if maybe the door got locked somehow.  Oh, no: it’s just that she’s endlessly clumsy right now.

She goes to the cabinet above the sink and opens the door roughly. As she reaches for the Zomig box, her vitamin bottles, face lotion,  toothpaste, and toothbrush fall into the sink.  The Migraine Godzilla casts a wry look at herself in the dark mirror and shoves off, not caring about the mess.

Awhile later, the medication has taken effect a little bit and The Migraine Godzilla knows it’s time to make coffee—she drinks a cup each day and sometimes gets a migraine when she skips it, so today is definitely not a day to skip it.  She manages to spill the coffee grounds on the floor and, once the coffee has brewed, she actually pours it onto the counter before actually getting any inside the mug.  Like everything else she has dropped or spilled this morning, the hot coffee on the counter goes ignored even as it drips onto the kitchen floor.

The Migraine Godzilla cares not about what destruction she creates.  The only mission is to minimize the impact of the migraine and try to perform the most basic human functions until the migraine lifts and she can remove the clumsy, cumbersome Godzilla outfit and live her life again.

Hours or days later, when The Migraine Girl emerges feeling mostly good and ready to resume her routine, she is shocked by the path of destruction. The house is a mess: not only is there the detritus she left behind during her stumbling attack one morning, but the dishes are stacked high, the trash is piled in bags by the deck door, the mail is stuffed full in the mailbox outside, and the laundry basket has been rendered useless since all the dirty clothes—not to mention the clean clothes—are all over the floor.

Can you identify with this Completely Unofficial, Made-Up Migraine Type? Do you ever feel like a huge, stumbling, awkward version of yourself as you struggle with a migraine attack? What sorts of destruction do you leave behind? 

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