Creative Nonfiction Draft 4
Relentless
I sat up immediately in bed, eyes wide and arms scrambling to move my cocoon of covers away. Moose chirps at me in shock and dashes 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 room at the end of the hall, memory serving me well in the blackened night. Rough carpeting under my feet hitches on the socks I wore to sleep. The blue night light in the small bathroom was my homing signal. I ran in and fell to my knees 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. Sweat gathered at the nape of my neck and my hands were moist as I pushed hair behind my ears. Saliva flowed in my mouth, copper tinged, making me believe every time I spit into the basin would be the time something else came up. I could hear my kitten scratching at the base of my door down the hall and the flow of water in the pipes of the sink. I tried to stand, hoping I could make it to the medicine my neurologist had given me for nausea. My vision blacked out and I nearly fainted, narrowly grabbing the sink.
There is a constant pain in my head that never goes away. I’m aware this seems impossible. However, 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. This is because I do not have “just headaches.” I have intractable chronic migraines and another condition called New Daily Persistent Headache, both terms referring to the constant throbbing sensation behind my forehead or a stab, stab, stab motion behind my eyes. Sometimes it means there is a steady thrum of electric jolts at the base of my head. Nevertheless, since that time pain has been largely ruling my life. It controls most of my work, schooling, relationships and emotions. I has been just me and my headaches for quite awhile now.
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Echoes bounced off the empty walls and I knew the mirrors in the corner would reflect something I didn’t want to see. The basement was dim and cold. I had stormed past them all on my way down here. I didn’t want any part of it. That wasn’t how I felt right now and seeing happiness while I was in so much pain only made the feelings inside me grow darker.
The ceiling shook and the bungee cords snapped the figure back into place. My fist smacked loudly against a rubber dummy. The entire figure shook violently. Heavy metal was pouring through my headphones. Somebody yelling at me, telling me that I could do better, blocking out the world for a moment. Tears were streaming down my face as my fist connected with the rubber dummy’s face. The thought of how much pain was surging through my head caused my knees to soon join in on the frenzy. Hit after hit the dummy just snapped back into place, the stoic grimace that was etched into the rubber always staring back at me. In my rage all I wanted to do was destroy it.
When I stopped to finally catch my breath, I looked down and saw my hands. They were red and raw, a few knuckles had started bleeding and there was bruising already forming around the rings I wore. I didn’t need to roll up my pant leg to know the damage I had done to my knees. I slid to the ground and put my head on my knees. Trying to hit out the frustration hadn’t worked, not this time. I threw my headphones across the floor in anger. I sat alone in the darkness of the basement, the light too bright to turn on, and let my tears flow freely.
I didn’t take the news of my migraines very well. Not when I was 15 and still not presently. It made me angry. The dummy in my basement was soon more than a quick consolation in my anger, but an outlet. Other people wanted to talk or for me to calm down. The dummy was inanimate. That was something I needed, something I still do. It stops me from lashing out at my loved ones when I just don’t have any tolerance left in me. It gives me something unbreakable to hit as frequently and as hard as I need. It’s not the fragile wall in my room that now has an unfilled hole in it. That hole reminds me how important the dummy in the basement is. How important isolation is at times like those. The migraines are something that I alone have to deal with on a regular basis, and that's bad enough. I don't care to project that onto other people.
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A middle aged black doctor sat at the computer typing in a prescription. His buzzed hair was salt and pepper colored and his skin was light. He typed without hesitation as he politely asked questions. I looked down at my feet as I listened to the steady loud clacking of keys. The sanitary paper crinkled underneath my weight as I shifted uncomfortably, knowing the answer of what I was about to ask.
“So are there…I mean, do you treat other patients like me? Where the pain never goes away?”
He nodded yes and turned to face me.
“Oh yeah, there are a lot of them. Not as many that never get relief, but you’re not the only one.”
I tried not to frown. I’d hoped if I was the only one that perhaps that was why we hadn’t had any success. It was selfish of me to think. No, it was hopeful. I don’t think anyone should suffer like this. I really wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
“So what’s the outlook like? For people like me?”
He took a breath and paused, lacing his fingers together as he clasped his hands.
“Well there are two things that can happen. There’s the path you’re on, trying different things and finding a balance where something works, but you aren’t so entirely tired that you can’t function.”
Typical. A balance to rule them all. It was almost funny that he thought I was on a balanced path considering the road I was actually on was in shambles and without any sign of direction. Perspective really is everything. But then again, he never really could know. He had a pain free life, a quiet head.
“And then there’s the opioid route which we obviously want to avoid with you completely. That leads to addiction and then you may be great for six months, but then you start getting rebound.”
I just nodded. A time-old response for a time-old answer. At this point I couldn’t tell if I was disappointed or felt nothing at all. These were the responses I had expected, right? No matter how intelligent or esteemed, no doctor had been able to save me from this dysfunctional world of pain.
“So pretty much, nothing new? We’re on just on the same track?”
“Well a lot of my patients have had migraine free moments or days, just not you.”
I kept nodding and offered what I knew was a weak smile. Even though I knew it was coming it still hurt to hear. Just not you.
We finished up the appointment and he shook my hand, wishing me the best until he saw me next. I gathered my things and walked out of the empty office, watching the receptionist laugh with the postal worker. My mind was numb as I took the elevator down two floors and exited the building.
The sun was shining and people were bustling about.
There was still a stabbing pain in my head.
I had to be at class in an hour. I'd be surrounded by a bunch of people my own age, but I would feel worlds apart. Because that's where I was. Four years ago I woke up to a different world, a different life. One that people could look at through a two way mirror, but never touch or fathom. Some days I sit on display and hope that someone will be able to walk by and reach through. That somebody will take me out. Other days I beat on that glass with such anger I wonder how it does not break. Most days I just watch the normal world go by. I watch the happy smiles and the quiet heads and I wish.
I wish that someday that might be me again.
Until then, I will sit behind my mirror and endure another day, hoping for a cure.
I sat up immediately in bed, eyes wide and arms scrambling to move my cocoon of covers away. Moose chirps at me in shock and dashes 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 room at the end of the hall, memory serving me well in the blackened night. Rough carpeting under my feet hitches on the socks I wore to sleep. The blue night light in the small bathroom was my homing signal. I ran in and fell to my knees 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. Sweat gathered at the nape of my neck and my hands were moist as I pushed hair behind my ears. Saliva flowed in my mouth, copper tinged, making me believe every time I spit into the basin would be the time something else came up. I could hear my kitten scratching at the base of my door down the hall and the flow of water in the pipes of the sink. I tried to stand, hoping I could make it to the medicine my neurologist had given me for nausea. My vision blacked out and I nearly fainted, narrowly grabbing the sink.
There is a constant pain in my head that never goes away. I’m aware this seems impossible. However, 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. This is because I do not have “just headaches.” I have intractable chronic migraines and another condition called New Daily Persistent Headache, both terms referring to the constant throbbing sensation behind my forehead or a stab, stab, stab motion behind my eyes. Sometimes it means there is a steady thrum of electric jolts at the base of my head. Nevertheless, since that time pain has been largely ruling my life. It controls most of my work, schooling, relationships and emotions. I has been just me and my headaches for quite awhile now.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Echoes bounced off the empty walls and I knew the mirrors in the corner would reflect something I didn’t want to see. The basement was dim and cold. I had stormed past them all on my way down here. I didn’t want any part of it. That wasn’t how I felt right now and seeing happiness while I was in so much pain only made the feelings inside me grow darker.
The ceiling shook and the bungee cords snapped the figure back into place. My fist smacked loudly against a rubber dummy. The entire figure shook violently. Heavy metal was pouring through my headphones. Somebody yelling at me, telling me that I could do better, blocking out the world for a moment. Tears were streaming down my face as my fist connected with the rubber dummy’s face. The thought of how much pain was surging through my head caused my knees to soon join in on the frenzy. Hit after hit the dummy just snapped back into place, the stoic grimace that was etched into the rubber always staring back at me. In my rage all I wanted to do was destroy it.
When I stopped to finally catch my breath, I looked down and saw my hands. They were red and raw, a few knuckles had started bleeding and there was bruising already forming around the rings I wore. I didn’t need to roll up my pant leg to know the damage I had done to my knees. I slid to the ground and put my head on my knees. Trying to hit out the frustration hadn’t worked, not this time. I threw my headphones across the floor in anger. I sat alone in the darkness of the basement, the light too bright to turn on, and let my tears flow freely.
I didn’t take the news of my migraines very well. Not when I was 15 and still not presently. It made me angry. The dummy in my basement was soon more than a quick consolation in my anger, but an outlet. Other people wanted to talk or for me to calm down. The dummy was inanimate. That was something I needed, something I still do. It stops me from lashing out at my loved ones when I just don’t have any tolerance left in me. It gives me something unbreakable to hit as frequently and as hard as I need. It’s not the fragile wall in my room that now has an unfilled hole in it. That hole reminds me how important the dummy in the basement is. How important isolation is at times like those. The migraines are something that I alone have to deal with on a regular basis, and that's bad enough. I don't care to project that onto other people.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A middle aged black doctor sat at the computer typing in a prescription. His buzzed hair was salt and pepper colored and his skin was light. He typed without hesitation as he politely asked questions. I looked down at my feet as I listened to the steady loud clacking of keys. The sanitary paper crinkled underneath my weight as I shifted uncomfortably, knowing the answer of what I was about to ask.
“So are there…I mean, do you treat other patients like me? Where the pain never goes away?”
He nodded yes and turned to face me.
“Oh yeah, there are a lot of them. Not as many that never get relief, but you’re not the only one.”
I tried not to frown. I’d hoped if I was the only one that perhaps that was why we hadn’t had any success. It was selfish of me to think. No, it was hopeful. I don’t think anyone should suffer like this. I really wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
“So what’s the outlook like? For people like me?”
He took a breath and paused, lacing his fingers together as he clasped his hands.
“Well there are two things that can happen. There’s the path you’re on, trying different things and finding a balance where something works, but you aren’t so entirely tired that you can’t function.”
Typical. A balance to rule them all. It was almost funny that he thought I was on a balanced path considering the road I was actually on was in shambles and without any sign of direction. Perspective really is everything. But then again, he never really could know. He had a pain free life, a quiet head.
“And then there’s the opioid route which we obviously want to avoid with you completely. That leads to addiction and then you may be great for six months, but then you start getting rebound.”
I just nodded. A time-old response for a time-old answer. At this point I couldn’t tell if I was disappointed or felt nothing at all. These were the responses I had expected, right? No matter how intelligent or esteemed, no doctor had been able to save me from this dysfunctional world of pain.
“So pretty much, nothing new? We’re on just on the same track?”
“Well a lot of my patients have had migraine free moments or days, just not you.”
I kept nodding and offered what I knew was a weak smile. Even though I knew it was coming it still hurt to hear. Just not you.
We finished up the appointment and he shook my hand, wishing me the best until he saw me next. I gathered my things and walked out of the empty office, watching the receptionist laugh with the postal worker. My mind was numb as I took the elevator down two floors and exited the building.
The sun was shining and people were bustling about.
There was still a stabbing pain in my head.
I had to be at class in an hour. I'd be surrounded by a bunch of people my own age, but I would feel worlds apart. Because that's where I was. Four years ago I woke up to a different world, a different life. One that people could look at through a two way mirror, but never touch or fathom. Some days I sit on display and hope that someone will be able to walk by and reach through. That somebody will take me out. Other days I beat on that glass with such anger I wonder how it does not break. Most days I just watch the normal world go by. I watch the happy smiles and the quiet heads and I wish.
I wish that someday that might be me again.
Until then, I will sit behind my mirror and endure another day, hoping for a cure.