College Roommate of Yesteryear

Dear Helen,

I only have a vague idea as to where you’re living.  We lost touch about twelve years ago, and I’ve no idea why exactly.  I just remember that we were hoping to meet up when I was in California.  You said LA was too far from your home, and you were too busy, and I said that was okay, that we’d be running all over tourist attractions – the husband, my sixteen year old daughter, thirteen year old son and myself.  But I left our hotel phone number with you.  I didn’t have yours.  I mentioned we’d be spending time on the Santa Monica pier before our flight home on that Saturday.

And so, the Disney and Universal Studios days came and went.  The message light never blinked on our hotel phone.  I held out hope that maybe we’d see each other again after nineteen years on that famous Santa Monica Pier.  Jim and I stood in a conspicuous spot where we could see people walking our way while we watched our kids go on rides.  I pictured a scene like in a movie – Helen Sue spotting me and yelling “Nina” our Spanish nicknames for one another, as we ran and embraced and let time melt away.

It never happened.  It was also the end of our friendship, though I didn’t know it then.  I wrote you saying I was sorry we didn’t get to see each other.  No answer.  Two Christmas cards and two birthday cards were sent by me with no response from you.  I wish you’d let me know what I might have done to cause the brick wall silence.  I don’t think I did anything wrong, but nonetheless wish you’d given me the honor of hearing what you had to say.  The last birthday card I sent, I wrote that it would be my last attempt to get an answer from you. 

I’m still tempted to try and make contact again, but I won’t.  I’ll just have to remember fondly our young days together.  I enjoyed our friendship, and you were like family to me.  We crossed the country together and back to return to the University of Arizona from our home state of New York.  We both had boyfriends named Rick.  We loved the Fidlee Fig and the chimichangas from the Student Union Mexican restaurant.  We joked and laughed alot.  We ate Thanksgiving turkey in our little studio apartment, shutting the curtains against the brilliant Tucson sun to better replicate the Thanksgivings we were accustomed to.  We suffered the indignity and angst together of having our bicycles stolen.  And we were entertained by several nights of the “woman alone” next door who rang her alarm and had helicopters sweeping spotlights on our apartment building’s walls.  We never did find out if this woman’s “door knocker” was real or imagined, but “I’m a woman alone” became our catch phrase that fall.  That and our other fifty-something male neighbor who had a T-shirt & bumpersticker with a local pizza joint’s schtik: “Bonzo’s.  Had a piece lately?”  We got a lot of mileage out of that one.

I’d relish the chance to reconnect, but it’s not up to me.  My address and phone number haven’t changed.  I know you’re still out there as I looked you up on the internet, but only got an imprecise location.  You’re not on social media.  Maybe you’ll stumble across this, though I doubt it.  Afterall, the Santa Monica scenario never played out.  Know that wherever you are, I still care.  I valued our friendship and miss you.  Love, The Nina – Andrea

Happy Birthday

My son is twenty-five years old today – a Cinco de Mayo birthday boy.  I remember that first twinge of feeling old when I turned a “quarter century”.  What the hell did I know? 

Tim has a job with a major auto dealer in our town.  The dealership always has a Cruise-In the first weekend in May.  Tim invariably ends up working on his birthday or the days surrounding it.  But I remarked to my husband today that I never hear Tim complain about the hours or the fact that he works two jobs.  He just does it.  I’m lucky to have Tim for a son. 

He’s pretty mellow.  I rarely remember any yelling fits or tantrums.  He doesn’t get angry or if he ever has, I’ve never seen what that looks like.

He helps us around the house alot.  He’s good natured, patient and understanding.  He even seems to be talking more than his usual abbreviated versions lately, and I have his girlfriend Ashley to thank for that.  She is very sweet to him and it warms my heart. 

So Happy Birthday, Timeteo.  You’re a great son, and I wish you all the best in your next quarter century of life.

Pineapple, Kale, Cucumber and More

Ah yes, another migraine cure in the form of liquid juice and handed to me on an email serving tray from a dear friend. My first instinct was as usual, to cringe and power down into defense-mode. Another cure? Why I oughta . . .

Instead, I looked at a picture of this frothy green remedy said to have cured someone with migraines so bad she was often hospitalized and hooked up to IVs. Well why in the heck isn’t this little cocktail being bottled and sold by the millions? Or am I confusing that with snake oil or lemon drops in my water? Pineapple, kale, lemon, cucumber and a celery stick is as simple as it was. What fool have I been to trust doctors and try Botox and anti-seizure meds when the cure was so simple?

It wasn’t my friend’s fault. She was looking out for me and trying to help. I really do love her for that, even though I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at yet another “cure”. Just last night someone on Twitter told me his ex-wife drank rum as a remedy and that chocolates were a trigger. He meant well. Everyone does. I just wish migraines were better understood so that people wouldn’t recommend things to us migraneurs as if we were totally clueless and that we were just having our migraines waiting for someone to come along and suggest a cure.

I thanked my friend politely and told her I no longer tried home remedies after so much money wasted and often more harm than any good coming from those attempts. From now on, I am leaving my migraines in the hands of my migraine specialist, where they belong. And I referred her to http://www.migraine.com

Any suggestions in this post are my opinions and not intended to be advice on treating migraines. Please refer any medical questions you might have to your physician.

Late Night Recirculated

It’s going to be another long night.  I can tell by the wiredness I feel inside, though my eyes are heavy and my brain would probably really really like to shut down for a few hours.  Restless legs kick in, jittery and literally so, and sleep will not be for now.

Yet I celebrate insomnia.  It’s a cycle I remember from teenhood and early twenties.  I’ll be honest, for some of those years I smoked cigarettes or pot.  Alone in my room I watched Saturday Night Live, totally loving the irreverence and comedic timing of Chevy Chase, John Belushi, Jane Curtain, Dan Ackroyd, Lorraine Newman, Garrett Mirris, Bill Murray and Gilda Radner.  It was my escape as I dreaded night and what it might bring.

My father slept in another room, slowly wasting away while I felt young, inadequate and without much support to truly help this man I loved with all my heart.  This was my teen reality.  I worried about my dad all the time.  It scared me when he was short of breath or what I see now as mild anxiety attacks.  His disease – congestive heart failure – was claiming him slowly but steadily.

Therefore, I embraced the night so that it didn’t have power over me.  I would be in control, not it.  Staying up till 4:30, I never slept in later than 11:00am.  I set my Queens College schedule to accomodate my needs to be that night guard – watching over it carefully and yet enjoying Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, The Honeymooner reruns, or listening to the radio.

As I got older, sleep became easy and routine.  During my raising kids and working years, I was often in bed before 11pm and up at 5:30am.  I became a morning person, enjoying an hour of quiet with coffee and the paper before rousing kids and jump starting our days.  I became suburbia.  There were the distractions of daily life which kept me on a routine.  It was a rare night when I couldn’t fall asleep easily and stay that way throughout the night.

And now, here I am again, waiting out the night.  Yes the hyperthyroid restless legs and jitters can keep me awake.  But I worry about my sweet adult kids who are on their own.  The idea of a ringing phone in the night scares me.  I’ve had it ring before in a jarring tome.  On January 5th, 1978, around 3am, I answered the phone from the nurse at the hospital letting me know my father had just died.  It’s the jolt that stays with a person for the rest of his or her life.  At twenty, I was probably too young to deal with things on such a level, but I relied on myself, dug in and did what needed to be done. Luckily, my sister had arrived the day before and she was with me in that lonely house.  Somewhere along the line, I’ve lost that spunk and fortitude, and I miss thst person.  (Migraines have chipped away at that over time).

So I sometimes worry about late night phone calls.  Like the one three years ago about a crazy off-duty deputy who gunned down his wife and her two friends in a bar my kids were in.  That was another incident where I felt powerless and scared.  I’d woken up my husband Jim, but he stayed in bed as I fretted out the rest of the night until the kids had given witness statements to the police.  It forever impacted my daughter, and I’m sure my son (who was in another room but heard the gunfire and surely was concerned for his sister).  My two nephews and a niece were there too and I worried for them.  I saw the shock in their faces on the news the next morning.

So how can I be embracing this night owlish existence if I’m fraught with worry?  Well, you see, I’ve got this smart phone.  I can tweet, pin, play games, read my Kindle for Android app, blog.  It’s my escape.  I watch the clock nudge along the morning’s hour, and I forget to woe.  Thank you, techno wizards. 

A Very Close Call

As if it wasn’t bad enough driving home from a tooth extraction! Suddenly the highway was covered with ice from a hail storm sweeping westward ahead of us travelers.  We were literally upon it quicker than brains react.  I felt lucky that I hadn’t careened out of control and eased my speed down to 45mph while putting my Explorer into automatic four wheel drive.  Once before, years ago, I had nearly spun out on the ice next to an eighteen wheeler.  I was grateful that instincts kicked in even at the tender age of twenty-three.  I took my foot off the gas, steered into the direction of the skid and did NOT apply brakes.  My sister and her soon-to-be-born son and I are here today because I didn’t panic.  That’s not bragging, it’s simply stating a fact.

So I have major respect for ice and snow.  Everyone around me had slowed too which is rare because invariably someone wants to show fearlessness and speed ahead.  I was feeling grounded with my four wheel drive old faithful ’96 SUV as we drove onward. 

And then I saw this smaller Subaru SUV looking like it was executing a quick turn from the opposing lane (that was my first irrational thought).  Then I realized she had lost control on the ice, but I’d already automatically been coasting to a stop.  She slid right before me, and I braced for impact on the right front passenger side.  Somehow, she missed me, but she hit the Chevy van just a little behind me in the right lane.  The collision tore the front fender off the Subaru and spun her around.  The lady in the van got her front driver’s fender smashed as she was spun around and faced the lanes at a ninety degree angle.

I called 911, mouth garbled from gauze as I got out and walked and talked while assessing first the Subaru lady and then the Chevy van gal.  The road was still slushy with ice so I walked gingerly, then noticed an EMT guy taking control.  He had just so happened to be a few vehicles back.  I stood as if guarding the scene until vehicles began intruding the space between the Subaru and my car.  Luckily, flares were put in place within minutes and traffic was diverted to the exit ramp right beside us so they could simply cross the road above and re-enter the freeway.

As help arrived I was asked to wait and give my statement to the police.  As soon as I sat down, I could feel the pounding of a post-adrenalin migraine hitting me.  I just wanted to go home!  My extracted tooth site was starting to hurt now too.  But then I looked at the tire tracks less than five yards ahead of me on the grass median.  I realized I was very lucky.  Had the Subaru lady come across at a different angle, I might have been hit hard. 

I also saw that the lady in the Chevy van, having been checked by the emergency crew was holding a baby boy of about a year old on her lap, talking to him as he smiled.  It could have been much worse for her too.  And for the Subaru driver, who at one point earlier on I had reached in and rubbed her shoulder in comfort, maybe for my own comfort too.

We know life can turn on a dime.  I had one close call years ago.  This experience was another.  I was so glad no one was hurt, and that the mother could hold her child, and we’d all get to go home that day.  It really put my tooth extraction and life in perspective.

This Moment

This moment belongs to me as the quiet in my head lets me simply exist.  It’s a most precious gift this feeling of normalcy.  My brain waged nuclear warfare on me a couple days ago like never before, so the sweet nothingness is heaven.

For thirty-four years, I’ve felt the varying degrees of pain migraine has dealt me.  I thought I experienced the worst before, but this latest one definitely takes the honor.  Its sudden onslaught surprised me as did its tenacity in hitting hard and then reverberating back like a loud gong that wouldn’t stop.

I have a tmi to confess.  IBS (irritable bowel syndrome with severe intestinal cramping and sometimes vomiting) is something I also suffer from.  On Thursday, I was feeling just fine and celebrating a no migraine morning.  Then IBS took over.  All of a sudden my head began pounding heavily.  I could barely make it into the kitchen from the bathroom to press an ice pack on my head.  Nothing was making the excruciating pain stop!

For the next three hours, I couldn’t sit or lay down for more than a couple minutes.  Standing or walking slowly would make the sharp agony a little more tolerable but only for a few minutes before I’d have to sit and start the whole process over again.  It felt like my brain was swelling and could no longer be contained inside the confines of my skull.

Finally, after the three hours, I could lay on one side with my head propped up.  The pain was still sharp and palpitable but it no longer sent me to my feet.  This was a major victory.  Unfortunately, a short time later, my mowaholic neighbor decided to take advantage of Oregon’s no percipitation Thursday to mow, mow, mow while my head went pound, pound, pound.  He often left the mower idling not far from my window.  It was an hour and forty minutes of torture.

I have never been to the emergency room with a migraine.  The reason is that if I’m in unbearable pain, I don’t want to move or sit in a waiting room and go through all the things ERs are famous for.  However, in the case of this migraine I would have gone if not for this fact:

I am under a pain contract with my doctor.  I take generic Vicodin.  The total amount is 40 pills every 32 days.  Is this enough to shake a stick at my migraines?  No, it is not.  And in a few months I will have to do without any Vicodin when I go on a comprehensive migraine overhaul.  But for now, with this pain contract, I’m not allowed to seek pain medication at an ER.  How unfair is that?  I understand if I had a habit of going to ERs in pain but I have never in my life gone to the ER for myself. 

I was also somewhat afraid by the intensity and different kind of migraine I was having ~ the kind the medical books tell you to seek medical attention for.  What if this were a harbinger of a stroke?  This pain contract is dangerous in some ways.  Can’t there be a clause in it somewhere that allows for one migraine ER visit every six months if needed? 

I’m having a broken tooth extracted next week.  I am not permitted to have any pain meds filled by any other doctor or dentist for any other reason.  This is ridiculous.  What if I need a few extra Vicodin during the day or two after the extraction and end up shortchanging myself as far as treatment for migraine pain is concerned?  It’s so unfair. 

And I’m very afraid to have the level of pain I had last Thursday.  Really, at my post-menopausal age, I thought these migraines would be getting better.  They’re not.  My sisters had me ask my doctor about a hysterectomy ten years ago as a “cure” for the migraines.  I’m glad he didn’t agree because it wouldn’t have “cured” them.  But maybe I should try adding lemon drops to my water as a friend recently suggested.  Surely that’s the golden key to unlocking the mystery of migraine suffering!

Disclaimer: The treatments and “cures” for migraine described in this post are personal and are not to be misconstrued as recommendations or advice for anyone.  If you have migraines, please seek help from a physician.

At That Age

Yesterday I had a birthday.  Not only am I a year older, but I’m also the same age as my mother was when she died.  It seems so long ago now.  This age I have become  once seemed so far out of reach.

But I think I’m okay with it.  Yes, it’s something I think about, yet I would guess everyone who has lost a parent holds that “age at death” close to his or her heart like a secret card.  It’s been waiting for me to catch up and the time has come to lay the card down and play it. 

One thing’s for sure.  I need to get back to what I was doing last year when I was eating better and swimming.  If only my head would cooperate in the latter regard, then I would eagerly plunge right back into that club pool and swim my laps.  Meanwhile, I just might have to take the migraine with me on some short walks.  I can’t let them keep me as immobile as they have since November, but the migraines have been extra horrid to me from that time on. 

So this is my new year.  It is the year of reckoning.  Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll fall victim to the same heart disease that hit my mother at this age.  I’m married to a heavy husband who never seems motivated to lose weight.  He is my biggest obstacle (eeks with the pun).  He keeps different treats around the house and it’s so hard to ignore the goodies.  He basically likes meat and potato dishes, nothing too exotic, and mostly corn for the vegetable, iceberg lettuce for the salads.  We end up getting fast food far too often.  Unsolicited, he’ll sometimes bring me home an extra ice cream, or he buys the specials which mean two-for value meals.  Food comes out of the woodwork it seems!

Ultimately, however, it is up to me to be my own gatekeeper.  And so at this crazy age I am, I must dig in yet again and try hard to eat healthier and get some exercise in.  I don’t like this age, but it’s just a number and my mother’s destiny does not have to be mine.  Along the way, maybe the husband I love so dearly will find his own motivation to take off some pounds too.  There’s always hope as long as there’s light.