it started with a kick in the head.
well, not literally, although with a neurotic basset nesting nightly on her head, it's entirely possible.
it felt like she'd got up on the wrong side of her neck, not yet realizing she'd been conned.
not until the floaty, thai bliss was guerrilla-ed from behind; heaven hijacked in a heartbeat. with a rubber screech to the curb, she was desperately digging in her purse, but it was already too late.
when the sumatriptan you frantically suck under tongue fails.
when you are a transplant patient and can't take any nsaids (advil, aleve, motrin).
when you are an addict and can't take any narcotics.
[cough. is this thing on?]
you. are. fucked.
for 5 days.
you lie with ice; with dog, curled around her frame. and in your unbearable clarity of pain, you are spooning with your neurologist, dr. a.. patient, kind and good. who you have called 3 times in as many days.
you are desperate. so desperate.
and your mind works faster and harder than flapping gums and chomping teeth at a down home cookin', county fair, pie eatin' contest. you know this cherub-cheeked, chicken could drive herself over to urgent care and manipulate her way onto a morphine drip. and you know this agony-coated moan could over-the-phone her way into a bottle of pain killers stat. and you know you could throw it all away with one little pill.
[and you know you want to.]
and her head ebbed and flowed with the madness of this migraine. the fierce flush of constriction and the brief rush of relief.
oh, and her fingertips burned at the prospect of release; singeing with sin.
and as she stood in line at ralph's, her phone rang. she glanced down, recognized her new friend, and knew exactly what she was supposed to do.
when she called her friend, c., from home, she told her how much pain she was in, and how much she wanted to use.
and c. told her,
"but, then what..."
[and we all fall down...]
but still, she tested the waters, poking, like a toddler, like a brat; justified in her middle-fingered, skyward poking rage.
"i'm very serious about my sobriety, but my sponsor said if i take painkillers as prescribed, it's ok."
there it hung. her lie thick with anticipation; for his yes; for his no.
waiting to be caught, having thrown it all away.
and a teeny, little man, who barely comes up to her eyes, first did no harm. he eyeballed her transparency in a second split, shaming those who blanketly diss the western medicine man. he took her hand and prescribed methergine, a medication that stops uternine bleeding; a medication found to be effective for migraines, but ineffective for hens.
and she sighed. caught, and released.
a fresh, new hell of menstrual migraine flows steady. as they discuss the extreme options, her head bangs the conundrum slowly. a low hormone, birth control pill; a subpoena for her newly, disclosed menstrual cycle. a cease and desist order for 6 months at a time, ostensibly breaking her out of jail for half year periods.
the insidious genius of a migraine is the erotic finger-stroking, euphoria in its brief retreat, only to choke you breathless, gasping, with its mindless blaze, flash; dark.
she walks the line. between man and machine. between liar and lover. between chaos and calm.
[bette davis eyes wide shut.]
when she asked her husband to attach her 6-month chip to her purse last night, he asked,
"on the outside?"
"oh, yeah. definitely."
she must wear this loud and proud.
and take it all with a grain of salt.
[hold the tequila shot]