Debi Orton's Pick:
"Only someone who's suffered one could recognize the authenticity of Ms. Carello's description of a migraine attack. Such incidents make trepanning seem like an entirely logical — and eminently desirable — idea."
I think she's coming back. I've got that familiar pressure in my head, that familiar warning. Maybe if I take a Zomig it'll stop her in her tracks, or at least postpone her visit. I don't know why I call it a visit; it's more like possession. Like I have a split personality or a demon or something. Something bad. Something painful. There: I took the Zomig. It'll work this time. It has to. I've got a class this morning.
Shit. She's here. Twenty minutes into class, and Migraine is definitely here. The Zomig didn't work this time. I'm trying to concentrate, to ignore her, but Migraine is determined to take over.
Why do you have to come now? Go away. I have to get through class. I have to go home and finish grading... finish making dinner... finish the laundry... play Scrabble with the kids... You can't do those things as well as I can. Please, go away.
Her visit is getting worse. Twenty years I've been hosting her; you'd think I'd be used to this. But no. My head is throbbing, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.
Why won't you leave me alone? I ate breakfast. I slept seven hours, same as usual. I didn't smell any strong perfumes or odors. I know you punish me for that. But I was good today. I didn't invite you. I know: you don't need an invitation. You come whenever you want. But, just like you, I hate losing control. And I can't give in right now. I must keep going.
My head hurts so much.
Please don't do this to me again. You still have time to turn around. Take the Zomig. Come back another time. Just not tonight. I promised my daughter I would take her to the movies tonight. I promised. Don't make me break another promise.
I hope my students can't tell that Migraine is taking over. I'm trying to act normal, but she's so strong. I wonder if they see Migraine stabbing the dagger into the top of my skull and out through my eyeball, like a magician performing an optical illusion.
No, they can't see it. Migraine would like them to appreciate the art of it, but they can't. They only see how bloodshot and watery my eye is. But the dagger is there. I feel it, hard and piercing. It's my left eye today. Sometimes it's my right. Migraine gets bored so she switches her trick to the other side. I hope the students don't notice. If it gets worse, I'll have to confess, so they'll know why I'm getting so quiet. Why I'm moving so slowly. Why I look like I'm going to cry. Or throw up. Or both.
My ex-husband used to be able to tell from twenty feet away that Migraine was taking over. "Janice just needs a rest," he used to say. But this is not rest. It's surrender. I surrender. Again.
I hate to surrender.
Dear God, please let the light turn green so I can make it home and throw up in the bathroom instead of my car. Please. Just let me get home and die. But I won't die. And I don't really want to; I just want the pain to stop. Green, go. Two more lights. Is there a bag anywhere? I can make it. Green, go.
Finally. Home. Walking slowly up the stairs. Must stop and breathe after each step. In and out. Each step.
Made it to my room. Closing blinds. Breathing. Out of breath. Under covers. Breathing. Heart pounding. Head pounding. Can't cry. Hurts more. Wish someone could bring me a hot cloth. Hate feeling helpless. Hate asking for help. Hate Migraine.
My ex used to be so kind to her. Used to feed her. Starve me.
Why didn't you pull a disappearing act like he did? He wanted you, not me. Why do you come back?
Crying. Hurting. Too many words. Breathing. In and out.
Need to escape. To stop talking. To be unconscious. Not conscious of pain. Closing my eyes. Picturing the beach. Feeling the hot sun on my skin. No! Too warm. Suffocating. Not enough air. Head pounding. Throbbing. I hurt. Don't cry. Please...
Imagining a breeze. Breathing. In . Out. Walking. Throbbing... fading... footsteps... bare feet... warm sand rubbing feet... cool breeze caressing shoulders... walking... in... out...pain... no pain... drifting... in... out...
Green, go...
Janice Carello lives in Rochester, New York, with her husband, son, and two cats who do their part to keep the lint roller industry thriving. She taught composition, creative writing, and literature for six years at SUNY Brockport, where she also earned a Master's degree in English. Currently she commutes 80 miles each way to Buffalo State College where she is a Lecturer in the College Writing Program. In her copious spare time (a.k.a. CST), she is the Managing Editor for an anthology of speculative literature to be published in Fall 2008.