Migraine

In today's story, Migraine, a debilitating migraine stirs a stew of thoughts and emotions

Today's prompt was inspired by a recent migraine. Being knocked down by a migraine can be physically and emotionally overwhelming. If you struggle with migraines or other health issues, please know that you are not alone. Seek help from friends, doctors, and support groups.

As always, this story was written from the prompt, with no planning and very little editing. If you enjoy today's story, please share it with your friends and leave a review for Freely Written. You can also send me  a prompt suggestion, and I'll be sure to credit you in the episode. Thank you!

More about Susan Quilty

Susan Quilty mainly writes novels, including two standalone novels and her current YA series: The Psychic Traveler Society.  Susan's short stories for Freely Written are created during quick writing breaks and shared as a way to practice her narration skills before she dives into recording audio versions of her novels.

Website:  SusanQuilty.com
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The Freely Written Book: Freely Written Vol. 1
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Transcript

Below is the transcript for Season 1, Episode 122 of Freely Written, a podcast by author Susan Quilty:

Welcome to Freely Written where a simple prompt leads to a little unplanned fiction. 

[Light piano music]

Hi, friends! I’m Susan Quilty and today’s prompt is Migraine.

Today’s prompt is brought to you by yesterday’s migraine. If you live with migraines, you know they are more than a bad headache. Actually, there are several types of migraines with lots of different symptoms. Some of my migraines are more manageable than others. Yesterday’s was the debilitating, hide in a dark room variety. Not fun. 

I’m much better today. Just a little fragile and wobbly, and oddly tired considering how much I slept yesterday. I’m also a little pressed for time because I had planned to write this story yesterday and, clearly, that didn’t happen. Thanks, migraine. 

Since that migraine interrupted my plans, the least it can do is give me a prompt in return. As a reminder, here’s how my podcast process works: I sit down with a prompt and write whatever comes to mind, with no planning and very little editing. I then record the story and share it with you. 

Speaking of prompts, I’d rather get a writing prompt from you than from a day of debilitating pain. If you have a suggestion, let me know through social media or the contact info on my website: SusanQuilty.com. Links are in the show notes, too. 

Let’s get on to the story:

Migraine

Light. White. Bright and searing as I peer through squinted eyelashes. The room is washed out. An overexposed photograph that sends knives of pain into my brain. How is it so bright? How do my eyes stand this sunlight day after day, enjoy it even, basking in a warmth that now adds to the clammy nausea that peaks with each turn of my head?

It wasn’t this bright yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that. It wasn’t this bright this morning. It wasn’t this bright ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago—or maybe twenty—it was a little bright. A little squinty. A little bit of a warning of what would come. I got the message but couldn’t get up from the floor. From the place where I’d laid down when the room did that sudden tilt-and-shift thing that threw off my balance.

The room didn’t move. I know that. Logically. But it did move, visually. It lurched and my eyes tried to catch up, though I wasn’t moving. So, I laid down and shut my eyes. Breathing deep and hoping it would stop. And when I opened my eyes, someone had turned up the sun. 

There’s a window. A space of time to take some meds. Head off the pounding in my head. The shifting of the floor. The weakness in my limbs. Usually, the window opens slower. Or stays open longer. Or does whatever it does that gives me time to take action. But not today. 

I can try anyway. Take the one that might still help. If I can make it to the cabinet where the medicine lives. When I look down the length of the kitchen, all the way to that farthest cabinet, I think of a movie. In a movie, there would be a special effect that stretches the cabinet into distance. I don’t need one in real life. The crossed wires in my brain do it for me. 

The kitchen has never been this long before, but there’s an island that runs the length of it. Something solid to press into as the floor tilts beneath my feet. My right hand presses the cool surface, taking most of my weight. My left hand reaches across my body, doing what it can. Hand over hand, one step at a time, I inch along the counter. 

“Are you okay?”

I’m not alone. It’s lunchtime and I didn’t hear the door open or the feet walking toward me. I hear the concern and try to wave it away, instantly regretting the shake of my head. He’s beside me in an instant, hovering but not touching. Not new to this experience. Worried but no longer panicked. Reassured by years of doctors, tests, and a diagnosis of “just migraines.” 

I’m glad—and mad—that he’s home. Glad that I’m not alone. Mad to be seen like this. 

I want to laugh at the absurdity, keenly aware of how pitiful I must look squinting against the light and groping my way along the counter. Sentences form in my head. I want to breezily say, “I’m fine! You just can’t see that the room has tilted, and someone has turned the sun to 11,000.” But the words won’t come out.

My jaw is stuck. It opens in slow motion and a few sounds stutter past the throbbing wad of cotton that has filled my head. “Ya, uh, I, uh.” 

I close my eyes and take a breath. Concentrate on one word. It comes out in a croak, “Migraine.” And I wince at the effort. But the first word is the hardest and I take another breath, making space for more to follow.

“Have you taken anything yet?” He’s on his way to the cabinet, getting out the bottle of pills as if walking and talking at the same time is an everyday thing, nothing special at all. And I remind myself that it is. That I can do that, too. Usually. 

“Getting there,” I tell him, and the words are starting to flow. “It came on fast. Too fast. And the room is kinda sideways, but I’m okay.”

I’m unsure about those last words—I’m okay—but I say them anyway, making them be true. 

He’s filled a glass with water by the time I get to the end of the island. I let go of the counter and sway a little, ignoring the swishing, seasick feeling in my stomach. He hands me two pills and the glass, waiting while I take them. 

More words spill out, this time with a petulant frown, “I was getting them.” 

I can’t see his reaction, and I’m glad my eyes are barely open. Pathetic. I tell myself. Angry at my pitiful state and even angrier at my petty embarrassment. But the anger is good. It makes the room straighten up, at least a little bit.

“Thank you,” I add, with a mumbled sorry that I know he understands. 

He’s talking but I can only catch a few words. Commentary on the barometric pressure and the storm that’s rolling in. A known trigger. A reminder that there are reasons. Conditions that will change. I try to nod as I make my way to the couch. 

He brings a blanket, presses the glass of water into my hand, and shuts the blinds, while asking what else I need. I close my eyes, trying not to see how easily he’s moving around the room. It’s too much, his movement making it too clear that the room hasn’t changed. It’s my head that has changed. My ability to be in the world. To process space and time and sensations. 

It won’t last. It will pass. I tell myself that, but I can’t remember how I felt twenty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago? However long it’s been. In that time before, I had taken a walk, swiftly moving along the path, not a care in the world. That couldn’t have been just today. Less than an hour ago. 

“It’s been this bad before.” I say it as a statement, but he knows it’s a question. A need for reassurance. 

“It’s been this bad before,” he repeats. “And it will get better.”

The first few times it was this bad, we’d ended up in the emergency room. Then weeks, and months, and years of doctors. Specialists. Test after test. Concerns and ruling out, until we were left with “just migraines.” Well, “just migraines” and a list of other things to watch for. Reasons to go back to the ER and those weren’t happening today. So far. 

I settle under a blanket and feel tears pooling. I don’t know if they were called by pain or fear. I mainly feel numb, I think. But there’s a general buzzing, too. Or more of a sizzling. When doctors ask about my symptoms, I tell them, “My electrical system is on the fritz.” But that doesn’t mean as much to them as it does to me. 

I’m very tired. I’m handed a remote control, and I put the TV on very low. So low I wouldn’t hear it on a normal day. It’s a favorite show. One I can see with my eyes closed as the dialogue flows past. In moments, I’m asleep. 

When I wake up, hours have passed. There’s a message on the screen asking if I want to keep watching. I click to continue, trying to gauge time by the episode now playing. The house is empty but when my eyes find the nearest clock, I see the workday is almost over. Another hour or so and I won’t be on my own. 

Beyond the blinds, the sun is dimmer. Passing by but also behaving itself again. Through a cloud of thoughts, I notice how much easier it is to pretend the changes are in the world around me, not from a fault in my head. I think about the way we can never experience another person’s perceptions, and I pull myself back from the edge of an existential cliff. 

I’m better but not back to normal. I will be. I tell myself, avoiding questions of what is normal and how much time I spend in normal and not normal states. Pie charts and Venn diagrams briefly float through my head, and I push them away. 

I’m in for a slow evening. Well enough to stay awake. Smart enough to stay as still as possible. I do move around a little. Slowly getting more water and a snack. 

I’ll be better by morning, I tell myself. And I am. Mostly. 

In the morning, there’s a wobbly jitter in my eyes and a slowness in my body. But I can make it through my morning routine. I can drive to work and teach my first class. 

As the morning passes into afternoon, there’s a clearing in my head. Like clouds parting after a storm. It’s easier to breathe and move, to talk and think. I can feel the migraine losing its grip. The memory of the last 12 hours fading into the distance. 

There’s an uneasiness in the transition. A relief and a reminder that it could happen again. That it could be worse. That there could come a day when it’s something else. When it’s more than “just migraines.” But I can’t think like that. 

I have to live in this body and brain. I have to set aside the knowledge that the world around me is utterly dependent on my own perceptions. Maybe not according to objective reality, but in all the ways that let me move through the world with as much ease as my brain will allow.

I have to trust that there will be more good days than bad. And that’s the best I can do.

The End 

Thanks for joining me. As always, I didn’t know where this story would go. I think I like where it ended. A little melancholy. A bit existential. Hopefully, with a sense of acceptance in doing the best we can from moment to moment. 

Living with migraines or other health conditions can feel isolating, but you are not alone. If you’re ever struggling emotionally, please seek help. Talk to friends, tell your doctors, or maybe try a support group or an online community. 

If you’re enjoying Freely Written, please share your favorite stories with your friends. You can also check out my novels, blog posts, and other projects at my website: SusanQuilty.com. 

Until next time, try a little free writing of your own. Let go of any planning and see where your imagination takes you. 

[Light piano music]