Migraines

I remember my first migraine. I was probably about 8 years old, and I woke up with a headache. I had a book for school with stories in it, and I had done my homework the night before, but I wanted to read some of the other stories. We were supposed to read fifteen minutes a day, and I wanted to get mine over with so I could play after school. My brother and sister and I usually watched the Disney channel before we had to head off to school, but I had already seen the Mickey Mouse Club episode three times in the past month, so I picked up my reader. I asked mom how long I had been reading, and she said 60 minutes! I knew this was exponentially larger than the assigned reading time (it was early in my third grade year). Mom told me to pack my book bag for school, it was time to go. I looked up, outside the window, and felt a searing pain behind my eyeballs. I told my mom that I had a headache and I didn't think I could go to school. I was sent on my way; headaches were not a valid excuse for missing school in the Allen household. That is all I remember about that day. I probably came home and put a pillow over my head.


I had headaches 2-3 times a week as a child. This was usually explained by having braces. And then as an adolescent, it was PMS. In college, it was stress. As a working professional, it was TMJ disorder. So I got braces again, and was referred to an Orthodontic Surgeon at UNC. The surgeon I met with was very matter-of-fact. I qualified for the jaw-breaking-then-wiring surgery, but it would most likely not be covered by insurance. He went ahead and gave me a price estimate for just the surgery, considering no complications or need for extra hospital care. While he was wiring my jaw, he would be able to do some reconstructive surgery, some liposuction on the cheeks and chin. Overall, the estimate was about the same amount as the loan on my car. Another option offered was to see a neurologist, just to make sure I wasn't suffering from migraines. Many of the symptoms overlap. I figured I would check out this neurology thing, since it was cheaper and less humiliating than being told you need liposuction. Then, a miracle happened. I was given a preventative medication and another to take at the first sign of a migraine. And for the first time since I could remember, I didn't have this dull stabbing sense going through my brain.

This week, I have had a constant migraine in getting the semester completed. Medication isn't helping, nor are those two beers I had. Tomorrow I can get a refill on my awesome pills. But I'm still suffering.

I'm posting this because I have seen and heard many people make excuses about why they don't want to get help for chronic headaches. There are all kinds of theories as to why people get migraines. I had a list of questions ready for the neurologist: were my headaches a result of the head injury I sustained when I was 3? A: maybe. Q: is there a brain scan to tell if there's something wrong with the brain? A: yes, but only in the most serious and debilitating of cases (I think this is when they started realizing my hypochondria) Q: When I die and donate my body to science, and the med students start slicing my brain apart, is there a chance that they can correlate the cause of my migraines back to my head injury? A: no (I stopped here, saving my further questions for WebMD). There are alternative treatments, too. My mom tells me there's an acupuncturist in Greensboro that works miracles in migraines. I haven't had a problem since I began treating with medication, besides the side-effects of the treatment medication.

We all have to advocate for ourselves. It took me 18 years to realize I had a problem with treatment. And take care of yourself!

Seven Year (b)Itch

Yes, it has been seven years since my sister died; seven and a half. My silly, complicated, eighteen-year-old, the-world-is-your-oyster - sister. In the movie The Seven Year Itch, Elwell argues that many men have affairs after seven years of marriage. While I do not have any scientific nor social statistical proof that this is, in fact, accurate, the idea still sticks with me. The idea that after seven years, you start to get restless. Things aren't what they used to be, and maybe you aren't where you thought you would be. You try to look for what is missing, and try to fill the void.

I have been journaling the past month or two, which has been quite cathartic. On July 4th, I had a moment where I thought my life would be so different if my sister were alive. When you graduate high school, the big question grown-ups like to ask is "where do you see yourself in ten years"? My answer was that I'd probably be living in Europe working in Social Welfare or traveling to third world countries or in the Peace Corps making a meager living, possibly as a translator after majoring in foreign languages in University. I never thought I would be married and have three dogs and gain fifty pounds and go to Graduate School for the same thing my aunts and my mother studied. Most of that happened in the past seven years. Actually, the only thing that didn't happen in those seven years is that I had one dog, Bean, who is nine. And I do not have a sister.

I have tried in so many ways to fill the void. I have surrogate sisters that got me through my wedding day. I have friends I can call or text at all hours. My brother is very supportive in ways that Caroline never was. I have a husband that is very sweet and dear and supportive. I have my sister's books and some sketches. I have her initials tattooed on my arm.

My seven year itch feels like a quarter-life crisis. How do I go forward memorializing my sister when it has been so long ago? To continue on, thinking about her everyday, considering what Caroline would have thought or said about something she had seen or done, seems like I'm stuck in an unhealthy pattern. But I think the same things about Rob, so I call him up and ask him, or text him, or meet up with him. I cannot quit having my sister in my life. It is uncomfortable at times - when a three year old asks me if I have a little brother or sister (in a nutshell - yes, a sister, they can be a pain in the rear-end, and they will steal your clothes when you're older).

Here is what I propose: grief counseling. I believe I have life experience that I can pass on to others. That's the goal I am going to have to put my energy into. I will have to answer difficult questions. I will struggle with smoking cigarettes (I'm not a smoker, but I do have a cigarette here and there. Note to new friends: Caroline died due to a cigarette left on a sofa and the resulting CO2, so I have extra guilt added to that one cigarette).  I have new family members and new friends. Life goes on - yet there is still a tug at my heart when sisters go to the movies together or even fight. I will not have that again. And that's okay.

I get moody and bitchy and I don't want to talk about it. A simple thing like a song on the radio will set me off, mostly because Brennan is butchering it. Poor, poor, me; woe as the pain set upon the privileged white woman (this is the major reason I have been against having a blog, but wait, I'm getting there). Classes start this month. I'm not where I thought I would be 10 years ago; who would have thought I would get married in my twenties? But I am totally in love and happy here in my save haven. I will create change at a very small level, but it will be a positive change. I will be a support system. I will be strong when I need to be, and I don't have to be strong all of the time.

 My punk-loving, skater-dating, independent sister still lives on. I will say a phrase that she used to say, or Rob will make a face that reminds me of Caroline. She will be eighteen forever. Things will settle, and soon it will be eight years; then a decade; and on and on. Sometimes I will act eighteen and irresponsible and silly and dance to music that isn't there. And that's okay.

Now I'm on the blogger

Today is an ordinary day. Vacation is over. A family member is sick (she's canine). Friends are experiencing sadness - I understand this sadness, but I try not to let it absorb me. I'm keeping my boundaries.

A funny story for my first blog post - I am born and bred in Raleigh, North Carolina. I've been told that I don't sound like I'm from here; this is to say I don't have a southern drawl. I will be the first to admit that my accent comes out around certain people, some of them I'm related to, some of them are self-proclaimed rednecks. I also grew up in a diversified school system, which happened to have an influx of teachers from other parts of the country in the population boom of the 1990's. And of course, there was my Latin teacher Ms. Moran, who always corrected enunciation (in English, as Latin is a dead dead language).

This thing happened to me freshman year of college. It happened over Spring Break, it was incredibly juvenile, and long story short, my friends turned out to be not who I thought they were. I needed someone supportive, so I started this long IMing session with my brother. As the night wore on, we started inventing shorthand. I filled out my application of transfer to NCSU. I wrote a heart-felt three page diatribe on why I wanted to be a part of the Wolfpack. I listed family friends as references of character. And yes, I was sure to mention that I was a legacy, and that my Grandfather had worked for the University, even though they aren't supposed to take that into consideration.


Great! I had finished. I just needed to make up a username and password. I wanted something short and obscure that no one else would care for. Rob IM'd me and said, "it's wensd morning, if you edit it thursd and can skip classes frid, you can hand deliver it to the admissions office on frid". I rather liked thursday; it's the day before the start of the weekend. A username was born, and I use it often.


In a world with usernames getting longer and longer, it's nice to have a five letter one to fall back on.