Creative nonfiction first draft
For Now
There was silence on the other end of the line and tears were streaming down my face. I sniffled to avoid a line of snot on my shirt and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate. There was a consistent throb at the back of my head that threatened to seize everything it could touch. I stood up and the room spun, the posters and mirrors in my room blurring into one big kaleidoscope of nothingness. Nausea rose within me, but I told myself over and over that nothing would come of it. It’s just a side effect, nothing ever happens. You wish something would happen, but it never does. You’ll feel like this for a while, but it will fade. Just focus on what you were trying to say. What was that again?
“Jess? Are you still there?”
I tried to respond, but my tears had stifled my voice and all that came out was a squeak. That made me angry. Finally! An emotion I could tie an anchor to. I cleared my throat.
“Yeah, I’m here. Not like there’s anywhere to go.”
He sighed.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Hearing the exasperation in his voice wiped all of the triumph at being angry out of me. Being angry, as I already knew, wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Not right now at least.
Four years ago I was “diagnosed” with chronic migraines. Meaning there is a constant pain in my head that never goes away. Ever. I’m aware this seems impossible. I wish that were true. None of my symptoms matched up with a consistent diagnosis with typical migraine, however, and eventually I found out what I truly had was something called new daily persistent headache. This is not to say that I do not have migraines, because I have a combined condition. This mostly just means that one day, about four years ago, on August 20, 2010 I got a headache that I would rate a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10. It never went away.
I sat up immediately in bed, eyes frantic and arms scrambling to move the covers away. Moose chirps at me in shock and runs under the bed. This does not matter. The only thing that matters is the distance between me and the bathroom and right now it is too far. I have sense to make sure the door is closed behind me before running to the bathroom at the end of the hall, memory serving me well in the blackened night. The little night light in the bathroom was my homing signal. I ran in and kneeled at the base of the toilet, the waves of nausea churning and churning like a storm inside me. I was dry heaving to no avail. The shock of it all wouldn’t leave. I was too hot, in too much pain, too alert. I could hear the tiny scratching at the base of my door down the hall. I tried to stand, hoping I could make it to the medicine my neurologist had given me for nausea. Vertigo hit me and I nearly fainted, narrowly grabbing the sink.
I didn’t take the news of my migraines very well. Perhaps about as well as anyone else at age 15 would. I think I went through those stages of grief, any by went through, I mean I’m still very much trudging through them. First came Denial. I was 15, about to start my sophomore year of high school. I would not admit that I could no longer stay up all night and get 3 hours of sleep and still be okay. I would not admit that I could not listen to heavy metal anymore. I would not admit that I could not be a normal teenager anymore. I would not take my drugs. I would not go to the doctors. Then I got Angry. Angry I wasn’t getting better. Angry I was in pain all of the time. Angry nobody understood. Angry my doctors were assholes who had never once had a migraine so where did they get off telling me how I should be feeling? So angry I started punching things. The bruises on my knuckles did nothing but distract me for a little.
The smell of garlic was overwhelming. The cool rush of air conditioning against my bare legs was uncomfortable at best. Goosebumps broke out all over my skin as I brushed past the other customers on the way to my table. I sat down on the cold plastic booth and scooted over so that my Mom could sit beside me. My brother slid into the booth on the other side of the table. I fidgeted nervously with my anti-nausea wrist bands and crossed my arms under my chest in an attempt to stay warm. I noted with contempt that everyone else seemed to be fine with the temperature.
The waitress came by with waters and breadsticks. She took our order and left us with a charming smile. The restaurant was busy. It was a nice touch. I took a breadstick, even though it stunk of garlic, just because it was warm. I bit into it and immediately regretted it. I kept eating it though, because it was warm and I was cold.
“I was reading today that the Prostate Cancer Foundation rejected the money that was raised by the people who looked at the nude pictures of Jennifer Lawrence,” my brother started.
“That’s pretty effed up,” I noted.
“Well, I don’t know, I can kind of see where they’re coming from,” my Mom said.
“Are you kidding me? They had all that money for research, money they wouldn’t have gotten otherwise, and they threw it away. How can you understand that?!” I exclaimed, furious.
“Yeah, Mom, not sure I get where you are right now. Cancer people don’t care where their cure comes from, just that they get one,” my brother chimed in.
“But it’s dirty money, people gave it out of regret,” my Mother said, standing her ground.
“So we’re going to concern ourselves with how money comes about now? Really? That’s just selfish on their part. They aren’t the ones that need that cure. If that money went to migraine research, you know people wouldn’t think twice about keeping it.”
That silenced her.
“Cancer people are lucky,” I continued, “They get all this funding and research and trials. I can’t tell you how many times I wish I had cancer instead of migraines.”
“You’re out of your mind,” my brother said. He was angry.
“Cancer patients deal with so much more shit than you do. Cancer is horrible.”
“Don’t you dare tempt fate like that, Jessica,” my Mom said seriously.
“I’ve been tempting fate for four years now.”
I know I didn’t want cancer. I wasn’t stupid. I just wanted answers.
Soon after Anger came Depression. Depression is something that hit me strong and fast, like a bad reaction to takeout. At first I thought it was nothing, and then it was all I could think about. Migraines had consumed my life. My dreams became nightmares and everything felt like it dropped out from under me. It is a constant struggle. One that usually ends with me telling myself to just be positive for a little, just for those few key hours at school or at work and then I can go home and binge watch whatever. That’s been working for me. For now.
“I’m sorry, I know.”
“I just,” he paused for a few breaths, “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could fix it.”
Now it was my turn to pause. I had just stopped the tears and they threatened to take over again.
“Love, it’s not something for you to fix. This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“But that’s the issue! I can’t be in your head, Jess. I can’t know this is how you feel.”
The tears rolled again.
“You think I don’t know that? I’m aware that unless you’ve lived it, it’s impossible for you to have a clue. That’s why I try not to get angry at you, Tajay! But I can’t help it when you can be out there, doing regular things and I just have to hear about it. I hate that I keep you from that. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you! I love you! And when you love somebody you do whatever you can to help make them feel better.”
I paused for a very long time.
“I’m sorry.”
There was silence on the other end of the line and tears were streaming down my face. I sniffled to avoid a line of snot on my shirt and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate. There was a consistent throb at the back of my head that threatened to seize everything it could touch. I stood up and the room spun, the posters and mirrors in my room blurring into one big kaleidoscope of nothingness. Nausea rose within me, but I told myself over and over that nothing would come of it. It’s just a side effect, nothing ever happens. You wish something would happen, but it never does. You’ll feel like this for a while, but it will fade. Just focus on what you were trying to say. What was that again?
“Jess? Are you still there?”
I tried to respond, but my tears had stifled my voice and all that came out was a squeak. That made me angry. Finally! An emotion I could tie an anchor to. I cleared my throat.
“Yeah, I’m here. Not like there’s anywhere to go.”
He sighed.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Hearing the exasperation in his voice wiped all of the triumph at being angry out of me. Being angry, as I already knew, wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Not right now at least.
Four years ago I was “diagnosed” with chronic migraines. Meaning there is a constant pain in my head that never goes away. Ever. I’m aware this seems impossible. I wish that were true. None of my symptoms matched up with a consistent diagnosis with typical migraine, however, and eventually I found out what I truly had was something called new daily persistent headache. This is not to say that I do not have migraines, because I have a combined condition. This mostly just means that one day, about four years ago, on August 20, 2010 I got a headache that I would rate a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10. It never went away.
I sat up immediately in bed, eyes frantic and arms scrambling to move the covers away. Moose chirps at me in shock and runs under the bed. This does not matter. The only thing that matters is the distance between me and the bathroom and right now it is too far. I have sense to make sure the door is closed behind me before running to the bathroom at the end of the hall, memory serving me well in the blackened night. The little night light in the bathroom was my homing signal. I ran in and kneeled at the base of the toilet, the waves of nausea churning and churning like a storm inside me. I was dry heaving to no avail. The shock of it all wouldn’t leave. I was too hot, in too much pain, too alert. I could hear the tiny scratching at the base of my door down the hall. I tried to stand, hoping I could make it to the medicine my neurologist had given me for nausea. Vertigo hit me and I nearly fainted, narrowly grabbing the sink.
I didn’t take the news of my migraines very well. Perhaps about as well as anyone else at age 15 would. I think I went through those stages of grief, any by went through, I mean I’m still very much trudging through them. First came Denial. I was 15, about to start my sophomore year of high school. I would not admit that I could no longer stay up all night and get 3 hours of sleep and still be okay. I would not admit that I could not listen to heavy metal anymore. I would not admit that I could not be a normal teenager anymore. I would not take my drugs. I would not go to the doctors. Then I got Angry. Angry I wasn’t getting better. Angry I was in pain all of the time. Angry nobody understood. Angry my doctors were assholes who had never once had a migraine so where did they get off telling me how I should be feeling? So angry I started punching things. The bruises on my knuckles did nothing but distract me for a little.
The smell of garlic was overwhelming. The cool rush of air conditioning against my bare legs was uncomfortable at best. Goosebumps broke out all over my skin as I brushed past the other customers on the way to my table. I sat down on the cold plastic booth and scooted over so that my Mom could sit beside me. My brother slid into the booth on the other side of the table. I fidgeted nervously with my anti-nausea wrist bands and crossed my arms under my chest in an attempt to stay warm. I noted with contempt that everyone else seemed to be fine with the temperature.
The waitress came by with waters and breadsticks. She took our order and left us with a charming smile. The restaurant was busy. It was a nice touch. I took a breadstick, even though it stunk of garlic, just because it was warm. I bit into it and immediately regretted it. I kept eating it though, because it was warm and I was cold.
“I was reading today that the Prostate Cancer Foundation rejected the money that was raised by the people who looked at the nude pictures of Jennifer Lawrence,” my brother started.
“That’s pretty effed up,” I noted.
“Well, I don’t know, I can kind of see where they’re coming from,” my Mom said.
“Are you kidding me? They had all that money for research, money they wouldn’t have gotten otherwise, and they threw it away. How can you understand that?!” I exclaimed, furious.
“Yeah, Mom, not sure I get where you are right now. Cancer people don’t care where their cure comes from, just that they get one,” my brother chimed in.
“But it’s dirty money, people gave it out of regret,” my Mother said, standing her ground.
“So we’re going to concern ourselves with how money comes about now? Really? That’s just selfish on their part. They aren’t the ones that need that cure. If that money went to migraine research, you know people wouldn’t think twice about keeping it.”
That silenced her.
“Cancer people are lucky,” I continued, “They get all this funding and research and trials. I can’t tell you how many times I wish I had cancer instead of migraines.”
“You’re out of your mind,” my brother said. He was angry.
“Cancer patients deal with so much more shit than you do. Cancer is horrible.”
“Don’t you dare tempt fate like that, Jessica,” my Mom said seriously.
“I’ve been tempting fate for four years now.”
I know I didn’t want cancer. I wasn’t stupid. I just wanted answers.
Soon after Anger came Depression. Depression is something that hit me strong and fast, like a bad reaction to takeout. At first I thought it was nothing, and then it was all I could think about. Migraines had consumed my life. My dreams became nightmares and everything felt like it dropped out from under me. It is a constant struggle. One that usually ends with me telling myself to just be positive for a little, just for those few key hours at school or at work and then I can go home and binge watch whatever. That’s been working for me. For now.
“I’m sorry, I know.”
“I just,” he paused for a few breaths, “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could fix it.”
Now it was my turn to pause. I had just stopped the tears and they threatened to take over again.
“Love, it’s not something for you to fix. This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“But that’s the issue! I can’t be in your head, Jess. I can’t know this is how you feel.”
The tears rolled again.
“You think I don’t know that? I’m aware that unless you’ve lived it, it’s impossible for you to have a clue. That’s why I try not to get angry at you, Tajay! But I can’t help it when you can be out there, doing regular things and I just have to hear about it. I hate that I keep you from that. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you! I love you! And when you love somebody you do whatever you can to help make them feel better.”
I paused for a very long time.
“I’m sorry.”