You Asked

Here it is, day two. I walk around with a cast-iron lid on my head. It’s ever-present and uncomfortable. I am up and about going on small errands and forgetting things because there’s fog inside my head.

Doing what I can

I can take my dog for a walk. It’s a beautiful warm day and the world around me is excited about it. I would like to feel the same way but I’m wearing a cast-iron lid. After the errands and the dog walk, I feel like I ran a marathon. I nap. This is also difficult since I can’t seem to get the cast-iron lid off.

I listen to lots of audiobooks. And fall asleep as the main character has been abducted by Comanche Indians. Sleep is a small relief. Though I dream with the cast iron lid as part of the experience.

My husband comes home prepared for the duller me. He takes the dog out and makes tuna salad for dinner. My thoughts are never-ending; should I take another pill, have I taken too many this month, I’ll have some coffee, how can I get in shape, I wish I could get this lid off, time to medicate the animals.

I go to bed at my normal hour even though I slept most of the afternoon. I’m trying to stay in a routine so the lid doesn’t get heavier and morph into the ice pick. I awake throughout the night aware of the lid, aware that the pain is migrating. It’s now 3 inches inside my head and the origin feels like a bruise. It’s beginning to morph. I will take another pill. This one is stronger. My pill stash is running low. Will have to battle insurance again.

I’m grateful.

My life has completely changed. It is so much better. I’m still limited. I still couldn’t go to work. With no comment from me when you said, “But you can work from home!” Because I know you just don’t understand, I forgot to answer your question, “What does a migraine feel like in your head?”

I’m grateful.

Before Ubrevly, there was no relief...

I never wore a cast-iron lid I only had ice picks. The ice pick forces you to stay in bed. Your body writhes while keeping your head as still as possible. You beg to be decapitated, just remove my head and place it on that dresser. You can hold your pee longer than usual because nothing is more painful than leaving the bed.

The ice pick

You try to keep your head in the same place, same level but this becomes impossible. The ice pick starts stabbing, it causes waves of nausea, I’m crawling now with the stabbing ice pick, trying to get to the toilet before I vomit. I pee myself. Vomit took priority. I let out a small cry and quickly put a stop to that since the pick twists when you do that.

I clean up. Crawl back to bed. The head is throbbing from the experience. My husband comes in and I ask for plain oatmeal, just with water, and coffee. But please, can you squeeze my head first, squeeze as hard as you can. This creates an ever-so-slight relief.

He returns with the oatmeal, and spoon feeds me while I sit in the bath. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my muscles contorting on my forehead are looking like burled wood. These migraines last for 4-5 days on average. When it subsides I go downstairs. I spend the next two days inside. Keeping low. Keeping the threat at bay. Until it finally lifts. It really lifts. I can run a marathon. But I remind myself, I can’t.

I’m grateful.

The ice pick migraines came once a month to once every month and a half. I still get them they haven’t gone away, but now they only become cast iron lids. I can go downstairs, I can watch tv, I can meet you for dinner even though I feel one coming on.

Taking a pill now.

I guess you can see why I didn’t answer your question at dinner.