Snickerfodder

Mindgraines, or God Smiteth the Sassy

Posted on: September 13, 2009

In addition to the plethora of minor, nagging and picayune-but-chronic ailments that have afflicted my pathetic and oft-abused 40-year-old body, I think I experienced a true migraine last Saturday.   Most people would retort, “If you think you had one, you didn’t; you’d know it!”  (To you, I thumb my nose; I have an abnormally high pain tolerance – as evidenced by my 16-year-marriage to The Dingus.)

According to all the literature and sufferers’ first-hand accounts, the pain involved in a migraine would register a 4.9 on the Richter scale.  I don’t question those folks who are truly and utterly debilitated by the illness; I have seen my mother writhe in agony and crawl across her pitch-black bedroom and collapse at the foot of the bed, too sick to climb in to relative comfort.

No, I don’t question those poor souls; I call to the carpet myriad hypochondriacs and candy-ass penyas who have the uncanny and dubious ability to miraculously whip up a “mindgraine” each and every time the concept of work happens to conflict with their active social calendars.  

Sistas, if you can’t freakin’ PRONOUNCE and/or SPELL CORRECTLY the headache, or if you have the wherewithal to explain to someone that you are, indeed, in the throes of a migraine at that very moment – girlfriends, my money’s on:  YOU DON’T FREAKIN’ HAVE ONE!  Or, at the very least, you may have had one in the past, but 9/10 of your mindgraines are sheer balderdash; some pathetic excuse to skip out of work before noon every other  Friday so you can catch the early bird doorbuster at Kohl’s or beat the traffic to the weekend’s venue of the NASCAR circuit. 

Those weak links have ALWAYS irked me; perhaps it’s because I’m so afraid of becoming or being seen as one of their ranks.  My little aches and pains are minute compared to those folks who are in agony 24/7 with horrible diseases; in comparison, I haven’t the right to complain.

Labor Day weekend promised to be beautiful and fun-filled, but, holy smoke, did I have a doozie of a headache!   So much for the fun & sun!  It was what I call a “sick headache” – it seems to settle right between my eyes, and it always shows up with its best buds, nausea and soupy-poopies, for additional entertainment. 

In the past, these whoppers have hit me only after smelling more than two perfumes at the mall and after Tilex-ing my shower (which I now make The Dingus do; I just cannot afford to be down for the several days it requires me to get over the pain nor the energy and effort inherent in growing brand new mucous membranes. 

I don’t know what prompted this little gem o’ pain, but you know it’s got to be bad if I am more than happy to lie perfectly still in my silent, blackened bedroom (with my trusty puke bucket beside me) while The Dingus and the M & Ms headed off to my favorite book fair and lunch at the local greasy spoon.

At some point, I dozed off.  I slept hard, but didn’t budge an inch.  Around 2 pm, I woke up ravenous.    Sloe-eyed and careful not to make sudden movements, I made my way to the kitchen.  I ate an entire can of Progresso Chicken Noodle and the biggest plate of spaghetti with cheese melted all over it. (How can one be sick as a dog and hungry as hell at the same time?) 

Incredibly, I felt slightly better after gorging, but I was petrified of puking once I literally crawled back into bed.  High tolerance for pain notwithstanding, I am absolutely terrified of vomiting.   I think I’m afraid I’ll chuck up a lung or something.  Honestly, in my entire life, I can count on my two hands the number of times I’ve tossed the cookies.   I would rather apply a tourniquet to my neck than up the chuck.  (Am I not the pot calling the kettle ‘pansy’, or what?)

I will do anything to keep that bile from seeing the light of day, and incessant swallowing usually does the trick.  For someone so averse to boking, there simply is nowhere else for the “sick” to go…but down.

Piles does not happen to be one of my afflictions (yet), and though I reside with a 6’4” hemorrhoid, I do not possess a single tube of Preparation H.     Delirious and desperate  for relief – I do recall at one point of particular lucidity – prostrating myself and beseeching God for a trial-sized tube of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste and a friggin’ cork.

I ended up sleeping 20 hours that day!   I lost consciousness and all sense of time and place.  My lips were intermittently numb, as if someone had attached teeny-tiny jumper cables to them, giving them the random jolt.  I could feel my heartbeat in the roof of my mouth!  I just know that I haven’t been that sick in a very long time.

Truth be told, I’m not sure exactly what gripped me that awful day.  Whether it was a true migraine, or even a mindgraine, I don’t know.  Perhaps I’ll just chalk it up to a case of a vengeful God smiting me for starting this damn blog!

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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