As I sat in class last Thursday I could feel the migraine coming. Like a damsel in distress, I was tied to the tracks as a freight train rushed toward me. There was nothing I could do to save myself. I dropped my pen and stopped taking notes. It hit me like a hatchet blow to the right side of my head.
Class dismissed early that day, and I stumbled outside, only half aware of my blurry surroundings. When you get a migraine the vision goes first. I was supposed to attend a happy hour launch party for a magazine I'd worked on, but considering I could only see out of one eye, I decided I'd better go home instead.
My understanding of genetics is limited—so forgive me if I'm mistaken—but from what I've read on Wikipedia, migraines are a sort of genetic disorder, like asthma, or bad vision or being Italian.
Sam, my little brother, got thick, dark curly hair from my mom. I got terrible debilitating headaches. Where's the justice?
The only good thing about getting them from mom is that I've been able to watch how she deals with them. Unfortunately, my memory isn't the greatest and I forget some of her prescribed coping methods. It's like I've got all the ingredients to make a delicious smoothie but can't quite remember whether I should set the blender to frappe or liquefy.
That was the case Thursday as I tried to battle my migraine, but kept pressing the wrong buttons. I knew caffeine is always a major part of my mom's migraine methods, so as soon as I got home, I threw a brew in the Mr. Coffee and moved onto the next ingredient, painkillers. After some searching, I located something called ""Enteric Coated Aspirin for Arthritis Pain."" Despite the fact that I had neither arthritis nor a clue of what the word ""enteric"" meant, I took a pair of tablets.
My next step was darkness. Off went the lights. On went the sunglasses and total darkness was achieved. Things were going fine to this point, but then it all went wrong.
Perhaps mistaking a cold cure for a migraine reliever, I decided to make chicken noodle soup, which I duly inhaled with my freshly brewed coffee. Then I drank two bottles of water, another important mom method, and headed for bed.
As I lay down, I must have sent the previously mentioned ingestions swirling together into some unholy cocktail in my stomach. It didn't take more than five minutes before that mix sent me sprinting to the toilet. In only my underwear and sunglasses, I must have been quite a sight for my roommate's visiting friends from out of town.
Surprisingly, after spending about ten minutes draped over the toilet, I actually felt much better. I slinked back to my bed, put on The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan—soothing music, also another important mom trick—and passed out for 13 hours.
When I awoke, the migraine was gone and I felt like a million bucks. It seems that, like a delicious fruit smoothie, you can create a successful migraine remedy even if you don't know exactly which buttons to push.
