Note to self

I've tried to write for the past few days, but I've had a hard time finding anything resembling motivation. Yesterday, I was briefly convinced that I was depressed. Find yourself a therapist, start some medication depressed. Then, I remembered that I was on day number three of a migraine. I had had the headache for so long, I had sort of forgotten it was there. Brilliant physician that I am, I decided to try sleeping. Serious sleeping. Having spent several days at my parents' - up until 2 am talking to my mom or sister and then back up at 8 am when people started to wander into the living room to wonder out loud how long I might be on the couch - I think I was a bit sleep-deprived.

Sleep-deprived is probably what led to my migraine in the first place. And, without going into too much detail, can I just say that I have found the worst place in the world (when we turn this blog into a stage show, I'm going to have Keith Olbermann read this part) to have a headache. That would be my grandparents' living room on the day after Christmas. I had been there about 20 minutes when I looked down and saw my niece Lucy lying on the floor. Except, I saw two of her. And then, when they - I mean she - started to cry, it sounded like someone was killing a cat behind my right eyeball.

Twenty minutes later came the real head pain. The timing was perfect because dinner was ready. I told my grandma I was going to sit this one out "because I had a little headache." Migraines run in the family. When someone says they can't eat because they have a headache, everyone knows what they really mean... "My brain is liquifying. I may have to excuse myself to puke it up soon. The only thing worse than vomiting up my frontal lobe would be vomiting up my frontal lobe with green bean casserole, so I'm going to skip this meal." We've all been there.

All of us except my grandmother. She has never had a migraine. She has, however, had herself some really good ham. So, she spent the next two hours following me all over the house asking if maybe I just wanted some ham.

If I thought my head might feel a little better if I just had some ham.
If ham might sound good if she made it in a sandwich with cheese.
If I might just want to try a couple bites of ham.

Yes, Grandma, I'm too nauseated to drink Sprite, but I think that some pork would really hit the spot right now. Especially if we could top it with cheese.

Finally, my brother said, "You know, guys, usually the last thing you want to do when you have a migraine is talk about your migraine, especially when you're just trying to pretend like you don't have a headache. So, maybe we could all just quit asking her about it. And maybe we could quit offering her food."

I could have kissed him. (Except, we're really not that kind of family.)

I say all of this as something of a reminder to myself. First, even in hindsight, the decision not to make out with my brother in my granparents' living room was a good one. Good call there, T. Second, next time I'm considering seeking psychiatric treatment, I should first rule out a frontal lobe digesting headache as the possible source of my less than chipper mood. And I should go to sleep.

Or eat some ham.