I have just come out of the second-worst migraine of my life. It comes in second only because the first one lasted longer; they came pretty close in intensity (although this one involved more lunch-losing, not that you needed to know.)
I wound up missing two whole days of work, a first for me in my entire career. Never mind focusing on translation, I could barely keep my eyes open; the glare of the monitor was too mych to handle. So on Friday, All Hallows Eve, I slept from 9:00 am to 11:05pm, with only one, um, emergency bathroom break (see above for TMI.) Of course, this was after a more or less regular night's sleep, so at some point I was finding it harder and harder to fall back asleep when I woke up. And at some points I began dreaming, half-awake. Was it because it was Halloween that my dreams were so permeated with the presence of my parents, both of whom are deceased? They say that's the moment when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and judging from my dreams, I would tend to believe that is so.
My mom makes regular appearances, my father much less so, yet he was the one who was prominently featured yesterday. Again, I see flashes and bits and pieces, far more than entire stories, but his presence was clearly distinguishable. Here are the three stories that I remember most:
I remember having our printer at work missing a font. Oddly, printers in that part of the universe had an open top like old-fashioned typewriters, and fonts were something to be installed by hand. Following the careful safety instructions of the engineering department, I inserted a screwdriver into the top of said printer to remove the part that would allow me to add the missing font. I heard a loud zap, and felt everything go white before I was stunned back awake.
I remember walking along some road in Pointe-Claire with my father, on a bright sunny day. At some point, he sat down on the sidewalk, unable to continue. I thought it might be heatstroke, having had it myself before. I asked him whether he preferred I go get the truck (what truck? who knows?), the car, or call an ambulance. He told me to do what I thought was best. So I went off to get the car, which was parked completely on the other side of town, and pretty much getting lost along the way, thus ensuring I'd have the darnedest time finding dad again - in hindsight, picking exactly the least useful of the three options.
I remember standing in the middle of my small town's only (and pitiful) shopping mall, the way it was set up in my teen aged years. Around me, two of my high school nemeses. I began to rant and rave, proclaiming to all who would listen that I had been unfairly treated throughout high school by said two girls, and throwing out all the examples I could remember. They stood in silence, staring at me, somewhere between bemusement and embarassment. (For what it's worth, let me provide a true example: they declared I was unfit to hang out with them, or actually even live, since at the tender age of eleven, I still did not know who Ralph Lauren was. Um, Catholic girls' school in the mid-eighties, anyone? To this day, I think they deserve a bitch-slap for that.)
The mind is such a strange thing. I think the day we figure ourselves out may just be the day we reach god, i.e. not likely to happen, given our stewardship of this earth.
Showing posts with label migraines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label migraines. Show all posts
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
fevered dreams
When I was a child, I would have a recurring dream every time I felt ill. The circumstances would always shift slightly, but the gist remained unchanged over the years.
I would be lying on the sofa or in a recliner. It was almost always at home, though. I would be so, so cold, deathly cold, chilled deep into my bones. In the other living room recliner, my father would be sitting quietly, watching TV. In a heap by his feet, a blanket, one that seemed to radiate warmth from within. All I want is to wrap myself in the blanket, but for some reason, I do not rise to get it myself. I ask my father to give it to me. I get no response. I ask again, but it's as though he can't hear me...or I'm not really there. I focus back on the sofa or recliner, and it's as though all my senses are heightened: I see everything magnified tenfold, and I am made aware of every single detail, all textures and patterns.
In the case of the sofa, it's an old chesterfield, very long - maybe even a four-seater, although that may be distortion from my childhood size talking - in burgundy. My dad's recliner was in the same thick-woven material, while the recliner I was in was a dark charcoal gray with a patchwork pattern in mostly warm colours, again with the thick weave on the chair arms. Yeah, I know, it was the seventies; I can't explain it otherwise. Opinions on said furniture were quite varied: I clearly remember my first cat, miss Lady Butch, thinking it was an absolutely lovely substrate for sharpening her claws.
Everything is in slow motion, the better for me to experience it all. But there is absolutely no sound other than my unheard requests. I'm still cold, and nobody hears me.
I always thought it was an odd dream, but its creepy underlying meaning only became apparent to me as I grew older. I think back, and I don't believe I've had that dream since hitting puberty - which coincidentally, is when I started experiencing migraines. Which leads me to two conclusions: 1) that was a really sucky trade-off, could I have the dreams back? and 2) if I'm still around then, will the dreams come back when I hit menopause, or will the migraines endure?
Incidentally, and pretty heavily off-topic, the only time I've experienced the same kind of "whoa, trippy" heightened sense, particularly of sight and touch, was after ingesting magic mushrooms. (A shocking admission, I know.) What the link between my brain working through some kind of internal electric storm and food poisoning is, I have no clue. But, from a purely observational standpoint, the healing process appears to be highly similar. Go figure.
On the other hand, while I toss and turn during a migraine episode, I seldom dream, and when I do, its shadows don't remain imprinted in my memory. I think my mind is just too busy weathering the hormonal clusterfuck to bother entertaining poor little me with pretty pictures and crazy storylines.
(523)
I would be lying on the sofa or in a recliner. It was almost always at home, though. I would be so, so cold, deathly cold, chilled deep into my bones. In the other living room recliner, my father would be sitting quietly, watching TV. In a heap by his feet, a blanket, one that seemed to radiate warmth from within. All I want is to wrap myself in the blanket, but for some reason, I do not rise to get it myself. I ask my father to give it to me. I get no response. I ask again, but it's as though he can't hear me...or I'm not really there. I focus back on the sofa or recliner, and it's as though all my senses are heightened: I see everything magnified tenfold, and I am made aware of every single detail, all textures and patterns.
In the case of the sofa, it's an old chesterfield, very long - maybe even a four-seater, although that may be distortion from my childhood size talking - in burgundy. My dad's recliner was in the same thick-woven material, while the recliner I was in was a dark charcoal gray with a patchwork pattern in mostly warm colours, again with the thick weave on the chair arms. Yeah, I know, it was the seventies; I can't explain it otherwise. Opinions on said furniture were quite varied: I clearly remember my first cat, miss Lady Butch, thinking it was an absolutely lovely substrate for sharpening her claws.
Everything is in slow motion, the better for me to experience it all. But there is absolutely no sound other than my unheard requests. I'm still cold, and nobody hears me.
I always thought it was an odd dream, but its creepy underlying meaning only became apparent to me as I grew older. I think back, and I don't believe I've had that dream since hitting puberty - which coincidentally, is when I started experiencing migraines. Which leads me to two conclusions: 1) that was a really sucky trade-off, could I have the dreams back? and 2) if I'm still around then, will the dreams come back when I hit menopause, or will the migraines endure?
Incidentally, and pretty heavily off-topic, the only time I've experienced the same kind of "whoa, trippy" heightened sense, particularly of sight and touch, was after ingesting magic mushrooms. (A shocking admission, I know.) What the link between my brain working through some kind of internal electric storm and food poisoning is, I have no clue. But, from a purely observational standpoint, the healing process appears to be highly similar. Go figure.
On the other hand, while I toss and turn during a migraine episode, I seldom dream, and when I do, its shadows don't remain imprinted in my memory. I think my mind is just too busy weathering the hormonal clusterfuck to bother entertaining poor little me with pretty pictures and crazy storylines.
(523)
Monday, June 23, 2008
not quite the perfect storm
I’ve thought about trying to describe my migraines for the longest time, but I’m always afraid that my words won’t do justice to the subtleties of the chemical storms that blow through my mind every couple of weeks.
In some respects, I am lucky, in that I’m only afflicted with migraines every couple of weeks. I’ve known coworkers on daily medication who would otherwise be non-functional six days a week. For my part, there are two “storm seasons”, that occur essentially at the end of weeks 2 and 4 in any given cycle. They last for about two or three days, when I am vulnerable to developing migraines. They usually crop up overnight, so the minute I wake up, I know the kind of day it will be. I can sometimes beat them down with ultra strength Motrin; I’ve tried some prescription medication, but they leave me so out of it I’m no more functional that if I simply had the migraine. But sometimes, after a few successful attempts at delaying the inevitable, a built-up, monster migraine strikes; it’s as though my body needs to “reset” itself somehow.
When they do strike, I am pretty much useless: I suffer from photosensitivity, sensitivity to sound, mild dizziness (more like vertigo, like 5’ 7” is so far off the ground), the traditional single-sided head pain and general miserable-ness. The pain usually resides right behind one eye - not always the same side, but always only one side at a time - and it sits there like a hot coal in my eye socket, radiating crackling lightning across my skull.
Sleeping it off is really the only option, and even then, sleep comes fitfully. I always sleep on my side, but I must remain with the painful side down, otherwise, I can feel the blood flowing down from the hot coal, like lava burning everything in its path. So pressure points and comfort be damned, until my mind finally shuts down to attend to the matter at hand, weathering the storm. It doesn’t usually last more than one day.
That was the situation with the contraceptive pill I was on. Two months ago, my doctor suggested I try a different kind, one that had had positive reviews for girls with these migraine issues. I thought, “Well, why not?” One month and one pack later, I know.
On week 2, I spent an entire weekend dragging myself from the bed to the Lazy-Boy, lost in a fog of discomfort. It wasn’t a migraine per se; the pain felt different, alien. I was sensitive to the light bulbs in the living room, so going outside was out of the question. I listened to the TV more than I watched it, and reading was near impossible. In all, it was a useless weekend. I hoped that while it lasted longer, I could habituate to this new threshold and with the right timing of Motrin, I would gain some functionality and things would work out well. How wrong I was.
Week 4, Friday: Woke up with that lopsided feeling. Knowing I had an important deadline, I took a Motrin and got ready for work. Once there, I realized staring at the computer monitor was increasingly difficult, as was simply keeping my eyes open. I pushed on, putting together the document as best I could. The Motrin was having no effect; again, the pain felt foreign, and I didn’t know what to expect - it was so unlike the familiar migraines that had ruled my life since the age of thirteen. I bummed a couple of extra-strength Tylenol from a co-worker. They just made me nauseous. I figured a little bit of fresh air might set me straight; in my haste to get outside, I took the shortest route, forgetting that that entailed using the stairs next to the cafeteria, where they were busy cooking broccoli and cauliflower. I’m sure that I developed a slight greenish tinge at that point. Nonetheless, I made it outside in one piece, but the fresh air didn’t help that much. I returned to my desk and, alternating between closing my eyes and resting my head on my desk like we used to do in grade school and typing frantically, I finalized the document, forwarded it to the powers that be and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. I was in bed by 12:15 pm, and I tossed and turned for the longest time before crashing into dream-laden sleep. I awoke around 7:00 pm; my head certainly wasn’t cleared, but at least I could keep my eyes open. We had dinner, and I was back in bed by 11:00pm.
At this point, I should remind you that I was at the tail end of a fairly extensive translation project. I had two chapters of draft translation, and the complete review of the document to complete by Monday morning.
The pain crept back in overnight; I was up for five minutes or so on Saturday morning to gobble down more Motrin, then I crashed back under the covers, trying to avoid looking too closely at their stark black and white pattern. In all, I was up by 2:00pm; while the migraine dozed, I worked fitfully on another chapter, typing diligently for two hours or so before I retreated to my pillow once more. I missed dinner on Saturday; I ate a pouch of instant rice while watching “So You Think You Can Dance.” I typed some more and finished my first draft. Then I slept some more, hoping against hope it was over.
No such luck. Again, I completely bypassed the morning, only daring to rise once the sun had peaked on Sunday. This time, the early-morning Motrin seemed to finally get a grip on the storm. When I got up, I felt exhausted, but I could actually string a sentence together. I even showered, washed my hair and stepped out for dinner. With a trusty Tim Hortons’ extra-large double double in hand, I settled down to knock my project out of the park. Finally, the storm subsided, as though I had finally prevailed in a three-day battle of the wills. I worked feverishly throughout the evening and night, returning the project by email a few hours early before returning to bed as the sun crept up.
So now, I start a second pack. Hopefully, next month, I won’t have the same deadline issues. Hopefully, next month, my own body won’t quite feel so alien. Hopefully, next month.
(1,086)
In some respects, I am lucky, in that I’m only afflicted with migraines every couple of weeks. I’ve known coworkers on daily medication who would otherwise be non-functional six days a week. For my part, there are two “storm seasons”, that occur essentially at the end of weeks 2 and 4 in any given cycle. They last for about two or three days, when I am vulnerable to developing migraines. They usually crop up overnight, so the minute I wake up, I know the kind of day it will be. I can sometimes beat them down with ultra strength Motrin; I’ve tried some prescription medication, but they leave me so out of it I’m no more functional that if I simply had the migraine. But sometimes, after a few successful attempts at delaying the inevitable, a built-up, monster migraine strikes; it’s as though my body needs to “reset” itself somehow.
When they do strike, I am pretty much useless: I suffer from photosensitivity, sensitivity to sound, mild dizziness (more like vertigo, like 5’ 7” is so far off the ground), the traditional single-sided head pain and general miserable-ness. The pain usually resides right behind one eye - not always the same side, but always only one side at a time - and it sits there like a hot coal in my eye socket, radiating crackling lightning across my skull.
Sleeping it off is really the only option, and even then, sleep comes fitfully. I always sleep on my side, but I must remain with the painful side down, otherwise, I can feel the blood flowing down from the hot coal, like lava burning everything in its path. So pressure points and comfort be damned, until my mind finally shuts down to attend to the matter at hand, weathering the storm. It doesn’t usually last more than one day.
That was the situation with the contraceptive pill I was on. Two months ago, my doctor suggested I try a different kind, one that had had positive reviews for girls with these migraine issues. I thought, “Well, why not?” One month and one pack later, I know.
On week 2, I spent an entire weekend dragging myself from the bed to the Lazy-Boy, lost in a fog of discomfort. It wasn’t a migraine per se; the pain felt different, alien. I was sensitive to the light bulbs in the living room, so going outside was out of the question. I listened to the TV more than I watched it, and reading was near impossible. In all, it was a useless weekend. I hoped that while it lasted longer, I could habituate to this new threshold and with the right timing of Motrin, I would gain some functionality and things would work out well. How wrong I was.
Week 4, Friday: Woke up with that lopsided feeling. Knowing I had an important deadline, I took a Motrin and got ready for work. Once there, I realized staring at the computer monitor was increasingly difficult, as was simply keeping my eyes open. I pushed on, putting together the document as best I could. The Motrin was having no effect; again, the pain felt foreign, and I didn’t know what to expect - it was so unlike the familiar migraines that had ruled my life since the age of thirteen. I bummed a couple of extra-strength Tylenol from a co-worker. They just made me nauseous. I figured a little bit of fresh air might set me straight; in my haste to get outside, I took the shortest route, forgetting that that entailed using the stairs next to the cafeteria, where they were busy cooking broccoli and cauliflower. I’m sure that I developed a slight greenish tinge at that point. Nonetheless, I made it outside in one piece, but the fresh air didn’t help that much. I returned to my desk and, alternating between closing my eyes and resting my head on my desk like we used to do in grade school and typing frantically, I finalized the document, forwarded it to the powers that be and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. I was in bed by 12:15 pm, and I tossed and turned for the longest time before crashing into dream-laden sleep. I awoke around 7:00 pm; my head certainly wasn’t cleared, but at least I could keep my eyes open. We had dinner, and I was back in bed by 11:00pm.
At this point, I should remind you that I was at the tail end of a fairly extensive translation project. I had two chapters of draft translation, and the complete review of the document to complete by Monday morning.
The pain crept back in overnight; I was up for five minutes or so on Saturday morning to gobble down more Motrin, then I crashed back under the covers, trying to avoid looking too closely at their stark black and white pattern. In all, I was up by 2:00pm; while the migraine dozed, I worked fitfully on another chapter, typing diligently for two hours or so before I retreated to my pillow once more. I missed dinner on Saturday; I ate a pouch of instant rice while watching “So You Think You Can Dance.” I typed some more and finished my first draft. Then I slept some more, hoping against hope it was over.
No such luck. Again, I completely bypassed the morning, only daring to rise once the sun had peaked on Sunday. This time, the early-morning Motrin seemed to finally get a grip on the storm. When I got up, I felt exhausted, but I could actually string a sentence together. I even showered, washed my hair and stepped out for dinner. With a trusty Tim Hortons’ extra-large double double in hand, I settled down to knock my project out of the park. Finally, the storm subsided, as though I had finally prevailed in a three-day battle of the wills. I worked feverishly throughout the evening and night, returning the project by email a few hours early before returning to bed as the sun crept up.
So now, I start a second pack. Hopefully, next month, I won’t have the same deadline issues. Hopefully, next month, my own body won’t quite feel so alien. Hopefully, next month.
(1,086)
one week of drought
It's an odd little title, given that last week saw more rain fall than in the previous month or so. But my blog ran dry on the first week following the end of classes. At a time when I thought I would have plenty of time to savour and devote to writing, instead I joined up with a new client and a massive freelance project, combined with a new contraceptive pill that made me discovered as-yet unexplored migraines on an unforeseen scale. So this week, there were no words other than those I was paid for. Oh well.
(98)
(98)
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
dreaming again
I worked my way through a migraine again on Sunday afternoon. I have added "describing what a migraine feels like" to my list of topics to be covered at a later date. Last time, I wrote that I don't really dream when I'm trying to get rid of a migraine. That's not entirely true. I remember dreaming about working out a problem, and coming very, very close to solving it, then being half awake and still being frustrated at not having solved it, then realizing that it had been a dream. So, I do dream when I sleep through migraines; it's just that my sleep is too fitful for me to remember them when I wake.
Sunday night, though, I had one dream I still remember. Another one of those doing something fairly normal with someone really odd. I was at a wrestling event, in a box. It was a small arena, kinda like the place where they held the first Monday Night Raw. So maybe it wasn't a box, it was just the first row of the balcony. Either way, I was watching this show with "the man" himself, the recently retired Ric Flair. It was bittersweet that he was way up in the seats with me, but he was happy. He came up behind me and leaned on the banister, one arm on either side of me. He rested his chin on my left shoulder and smiled.
I could say how odd, but that's a given for each and every one of my dreams...
(256)
Sunday night, though, I had one dream I still remember. Another one of those doing something fairly normal with someone really odd. I was at a wrestling event, in a box. It was a small arena, kinda like the place where they held the first Monday Night Raw. So maybe it wasn't a box, it was just the first row of the balcony. Either way, I was watching this show with "the man" himself, the recently retired Ric Flair. It was bittersweet that he was way up in the seats with me, but he was happy. He came up behind me and leaned on the banister, one arm on either side of me. He rested his chin on my left shoulder and smiled.
I could say how odd, but that's a given for each and every one of my dreams...
(256)
Friday, April 18, 2008
the oddest side-effect of migraines yet
I realized something very strange this morning. I’ve been complaining for the past week or so that the well of words seems to have dried up, that I need to prod myself along to string sentences together, and that even then, the results are uninspiring at best.
Yesterday, I had a migraine. One of those star-seeing, pull-the-drapes-shut-and-go-back-to-bed types. When five foot seven seems so far off the ground, the beeps of the touchtone phone hurt and keeping your eyes open is an event worthy of Olympic status.
By last night, the fog had lifted, and I realized the words were back. I’ve written three different posts both yesterday and today, and I have plenty more to say, on a variety of topics. I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. Is it a preemptive measure, i.e. shutting down all non-essential functionalities? Or an indicator, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm? Whatever it may be, it will definitely be worth keeping an eye open in months ahead (since I get migraines on a fairly regular basis) to see whether there is any kind of discernible pattern.
Wednesday in six: Road trip - living like a rockstar.
Thursday: Migraine: when my brain goes awry.
Friday: Made a true friend at lunchtime.
(210)
Yesterday, I had a migraine. One of those star-seeing, pull-the-drapes-shut-and-go-back-to-bed types. When five foot seven seems so far off the ground, the beeps of the touchtone phone hurt and keeping your eyes open is an event worthy of Olympic status.
By last night, the fog had lifted, and I realized the words were back. I’ve written three different posts both yesterday and today, and I have plenty more to say, on a variety of topics. I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. Is it a preemptive measure, i.e. shutting down all non-essential functionalities? Or an indicator, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm? Whatever it may be, it will definitely be worth keeping an eye open in months ahead (since I get migraines on a fairly regular basis) to see whether there is any kind of discernible pattern.
Wednesday in six: Road trip - living like a rockstar.
Thursday: Migraine: when my brain goes awry.
Friday: Made a true friend at lunchtime.
(210)
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