Migraine, Motorists, and Miscreants

Well, I did go home.

My migraine came on full force (as predicted), and I had the distinct displeasure of throwing up in our office bathroom. Lovely.

Since I was almost blinded by my head pain, and my gut was telling me I’d be spending some more quality time with the bathroom floor, I elected to exercise my executive staff “flexible hours” privilege and hightail it home.

My manager got about a minute’s notice as I hurriedly explained “Got to go. Migraine. Going to throw up. Not here again, please. Bye.”

I believe her exact words, or at least what I heard in my rush to get out were, “What? Oh, oooookay,” said in a strangely surprised manner.

I took the dangerous Route 2 home, just dreaming of all the ways in which death-by-car-accident could be more pleasant than the migraine torture currently coursing through my beleaguered brain.

Of course, I got stuck behind hey-I’ve-got-a-new-car-and-therefore-must-go-the-actual-speed-limit on the incredibly long Route 2 – normally known as the rural Autobahn of Rockford-Loves-Machesney-Roscoe-Rockton area.

Heck, the reason I TOOK the perilous way home was because I could get home faster. Or maybe hit a deer and die in bliss compared to the massive brain-tumor-like migraine.

Instead, I got stuck behind some new-car-owner going 45 mph. FORTY-FIVE!!! On Route 2. It’s like driving a Big Wheel on a NASCAR track.

Sheesh.

I had some choice words for the driver, although most of them were lost under the dull roar of the pain ocean rip tiding its way through my head. My efforts to hold my breakfast (or what was left of it) in my stomach were also being sorely tested.

By the time, I got home (and after I gave a full ten second glare to Ms. New Car Owner at the ONLY stop light on Roscoe Road) I rushed towards my Excedrin Migraine medication, downed two pills immediately, and took up residence on the bathroom floor for the better part of the early morning.

The meds kicked in and the pounding settled to a much more bearable ache. I had a Diet Coke from my secret stash and some of the chocolate Brett thought he had hid from me. Ha. I can find chocolate anywhere. Silly man.

The mix of meds, chocolate, and caffeine staved off the migraine, and the two hour nap helped tremendously. After the pain had subsided, I felt like a complete and total weenie for leaving work early.

At the time, the pain was so intense I felt like I had no choice. This is the fastest a migraine has ever gripped me. Usually I have a little more warning. A little more time. But today, I think I had a five minute warning before I was rubbing my temples and racing towards the bathroom.

Some people get migraines every day or at least once a week. I can’t even imagine the pain. If it were me, I don’t know how I could continue living. It’s pure torture. I count myself fortunate to only be visited with a migraine every six months or so.

Migraine pain is exquisite, sensitive, and sorely separate anguish. I’ve talked to other sufferers, people who have more frequent migraines, and everyone has a different theory as to what causes them, how to treat them, and whether or not there will ever be a cure.

I’m sure mine are hereditary. I remember Dad’s suffering. Many weekends, he’d spend sequestered in my parents’ room, in the dark, curtains drawn, and Mom and I would tiptoe and whisper our way around the house.

As it is with every time I’m sick, I torture myself afterwards debating whether I should have left work.

My job allows a very flexible schedule and a wide berth of sick days, vacation days, personal days, floating holidays, etc. One of the best perks of working for a non-profit.

But I still persecute myself with questions concerning whether I could have “toughed it out” or not. The truth of the matter is that, while I don’t think of myself as a hypochondriac, I will admit that my stamina in the face of any kind of pain is similar to that of a six-week-old kitten.

I’m the first to admit that I’m not particularly impervious to pain. Okay, I’m a wuss. Unlike my mom, who has a threshold for pain that would rival a trained Navy SEAL.

Plus, I know I’ll face the derision of several co-workers who will, undoubtedly, ask me, “Did ewe hafta go home, cause your wittle, itty, bitty head hurted ewe? Awww, poor baby,” said in a mocking sing-song that will undoubtedly endure until the next time I face an ailment when the theme will change to eye-rolling and recollections of the last time I “wimped” out.

I hate facing those particular co-workers. Not only are they sarcastic and unsympathetic, they also have incredible immune systems that ensure they’ll never miss a day of work.

I’d be lying if I said I’d never happily daydreamed of them calling in sick with a mysterious illness that defied explanation from the CDC.

Well, I can’t change the past, and I suppose there is no sense in continuing to interrogate myself. I did leave, and I will have to face those people. Even though my office personnel policy provides for actual emergencies like these. Nothing I can do about that.

But I can go find the rest of the chocolate Brett has hidden around the house. That may cheer me up. Heck, what am I saying? Of course, that will cheer me up.

Wish me happy hunting!