There's a Giant Exploding Hydra in My Head

Headaches—they slow me down, fill me with fear and, just generally, bring me down. They’re no damn good, I tell ya!

I mentioned before that I’ve been plagued with more of them than usual lately. On Sunday I had a mal di testa of mythic proportion.

After we got home from seeing Star Wars, Jen, Oni and I hunkered down on their big comfy couch to gush and dissect The Force Awakens. There was wine. We had jalapeño poppers. There was post effusement TV watching (Dexter—one very odd, interesting show). This is our, more or less, usual Everything Stops for TeaTime weekend habit.

And then I sipped some water and it just refused swallowing. This wee droplet of acqua was having none of that consumption action. Nope. A coughing fit to end them all began. You know how, just before one of these events goes nuclear, hacking subsides a bit? I thought, ahhhhh, I’m gonna be OK. Here, mebbe a little sip of water will soothe the battling weasels in my throat.
And then, right there, I exploded into body slamming, can’t get a breath, should-we-dial-the-ETs, cough hyper-drive. I rolled off the couch and crawled to the kitchen. Why? Jen and Oni have this awesome stone floor there. I needed to rest my head on the cold slate. OK, it was that and I was embarrassed by my sudden, way outta control seizure.

How’s that for silly? I’m with beloved family, having a nasty-ass, killah hack-a-thon and feeling all awkward and abashed. Why is that? Eh, undoubtedly it has roots in the scoldings, received in childhood, whenever I got sick. Illness was not acceptable in our house. BUT nothing is singly determined so I’ll think more on this bizarre reaction of mine so's I can kick it to the curb.

Since Sunday, I’ve been utterly wiped. It’s way too damn easy to crawl into a ball under my fluffy down comforter with my fierce former feral, Rocco, by my side and stay there. There’s life to be lived though. This morning’s more clear, less painful AND it’s not snowing! Yes, yez, I feel there's a trike ride, followed by some studio time, in my immediate future. Also too, Jen called, my neurologist, the good Doc Plotkin, on Monday to see if he has any thoughts/advice or if I should come in. We’re waiting for a call back now.

I do know that the asshole meningiomas up top have an effect on my ability to swallow. In order to avoid more attacks I’m eating and drinking less and, when consumption does happen, I’m slower than a loris on Xanax. In general this is a very good habit anyway.

You know, Zen and the Art of Lunch and shit.