The Draining Journey

Today was yet another of those days when a migraine paid me a visit, although it wasn’t a terribly bad one.
At the first sign of an aura, I brace myself for a draining rest of the day. Before too long, I was the weirdo in the darkened office looking at a monitor that I dimmed as much as possible. One diet Mountain Dew, three bottles of water, two cups of black coffee and four aspirin later, the aura was gone, the pain hadn’t really had a chance to take hold and I was feeling better.

Jittery, but better.

On days like today when the week feels like it will be never-ending on day one, and when I’m trying to beat back a monstrous headache, I often wonder what I can find to be thankful for when I get home and it’s time to write.

I read an article today about a man who discarded most of his possessions and walked across the country to shine a light on the homeless; social media helped document his journey and give a voice to those on the street. From one coast to the other, he relied on the kindness of strangers not only for food, but likely the motivation to simply keep going.

Each time I get one of these pesky headaches, I revel in my pity party for a while, then realize how grateful I am to be able to nip it in the bud.

I used to conduct said nipping via Imitrex or Zomig. Over time as the headaches lessened, I can now reach for something caffeinated — and a few pills o’ magic — and rest assured that they’ll do the trick.

If I was walking across the country, I’d probably be pretty hard-pressed to find any of those items in my path, unless someone happened to specifically present any of them to me. Prescriptions would obviously be even harder to come by, if not impossible. A concrete bed at night wouldn’t help my plight much, nor would the elements, and any lack of food or hydration.

Tonight, while not a coast to coast hike but a draining journey in its own right, I am thankful for the plethora of migraine-fighting tools in my arsenal, for a soft bed to fall into at the end of the day and for a roof over my head to help me hide away from it all. Here’s to a night of recovery, and a dark room that doesn’t give way to the morning light a moment too soon.

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