The Wheels on the Bus

So, I'm siting on the bus last night, and I really think I might be sick. 

I don't often get nausea with my headaches, but yesterday was one of those unusual days. I thought it was because I was hungry, when I got it on the way home from London. But I'd eaten, and now it's that dinner I'm threatening to revisit.

And I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing. I'm still going out to the cinema even though I've felt rough all day. When I got home I went straight upstairs and did some mindfulness. And in those moments of quiet my head threatened to get worse. The throbbing quickened, sharpened. And then it calmed. 
But then as I did some washing up, it tightened. I almost burst into tears at sheer frustration. Then I took a few deep breaths, hardened my resolve, and carried on.

And now I was sitting on the bus, feeling sick and getting awful sharp pulses in my neck - my neck! - that were only adding to the deep aching that had spent most of the day in the right side of my head, but now for some reason was residing in the left temple. 
A drink or two, and then two hours in a dark room with bright lights on a big screen and loud noises all around. Just what the doctor didn't order.

But you know what?
My head got bearable halfway through my first rum and coke. And whilst I was aware of the pain, I was too distracted to pay attention to it. 
It was bearable throughout the movie. 
And outside, it only reared ugly, aching, nauseous head again when I had to run like a superhero for the bus. 

So there I was - again - sitting on a bus, with a pounding head and that feeling in my mouth that you get just before you vomit.
But I didn't. I got home. I took my pills. I went to bed.

And today is another day. Today is another day of fighting my head. Fighting for a pain free life. 
Fighting for myself. 

Hello headache, my old friend

For more than eight years now I've woken up every day and had a headache. Eight years is a long time for my paltry memory to reach back, so I can't remember if it would be there when I opened my eyes right at the beginning. But in the last 5 or 6 years, it generally has.For a few bleary moments, approximately a second and a half, when I first open my eyes, my mind adjusts to the situation, and the context in which I base myself. This context of young woman with constant headache. Often, unless I am instantly hit with an inescapable thud of pain, those few bleary moments are a few bleary moments of freedom. It's as though my headache is waiting in the wings, a Pantomime villain, and my temples, my neck, my skull, my nerves and blood vessels are all about to join in a chorus of "he's behind you!"

And then out from the wings he leaps, cackling evilly and all the pain arrives trailing behind him like small minions. The headache orchestrates the minions, directing them to where he needs them most - lying across my forehead like a wet flannel, resting in my temple like mini Buddhas, ohming a tingle of agony. 
All this in those few bleary moments. 

I thought my headache was getting better. But this morning, as with yesterday too, my pantomime villain was barely containing himself to the wings before I opened my eyes.

And at 2am he snuck his new favourite pal in too: hello nausea, you sneaky bastard. I thought I'd had enough of you. 

When my alarm went at 7am, they were both there. Picnicking. Dining out on my nerves and blood vessels and pushing on certain bits and pressing on others. Feeling nausea lying in my throat; my headache lolling around above my eyebrows.

Dine away, villain. Push and press away. The context into which I awake everyday might include you, but it isn't solely about you. I am more than my pain. Good always defeats evil. Go back to the shadows with a boo and a hiss. You won't be missed.