Like a Scab

I have a perfect cure for hiccups. Perfect for me, that is.

I take a deep breath, as much as my lungs will hold, and I hang on. I keep that air inside my lungs for as long as I possibly can, even if a hiccup comes while my diaphragm is tense.

Slowly, evenly, I let the air out. I keep my lips together but slightly pursed, as though I'm about to plant a small peck on someones cheek. The air flows until I have to push with my diaphragm to get every bit of it out.

Immediately, I swallow another huge gulp of air and repeat the process.

If I hiccup at any time while I'm exhaling, I start the process again. I have to be able to let the air out without any interruption.

If I'm successful, I make sure that I don't cough, sneeze, or belch for about five minutes. Nine times out of 10, this will cure my hiccups.

I have no cure for a migraine. If I'm lucky enough to catch it before it starts, I can take two or three Advil tablets to avert the storm. If I can't take anything in time, I have to simply ride it out.

For the first hour or so, I'm inconsolable. I thrash about. I shake. I yawn uncontrollably. I breathe hard and fast. I try to shield myself from noise and light, and any other stimulation.

Always, a song plays in my head in a perpetual cycle, usually only one line from a verse or the chorus.

Eventually, I become exhausted and fall into a deep sleep. As long as there's no stimulus, I will sleep until the migraine subsides, and I'll awake in a fog, but pain-free.

If my migraine hits on a weekday morning, I undergo the throws of agony while DW and the kids get ready to head out for their day. When they leave, the house goes quiet and I can wear myself out, and fall asleep.

When it's a weekend or holiday, I'm screwed.

Because DW is concerned for my well being, she'll check on me, to see how I'm doing. She'll ask me if she can do anything for me, and my answer is always the same: just leave me alone. Stay quiet.

When our room goes quiet, she'll come in, tiptoe to my side of the bed, and place a loving hand on my head. Which wakes me up and brings me back to my migraine. My breathing increases; I rock my head back and forth; I try to become comfortable.

And I tell her—often in a less-than-friendly tone—to leave me alone.

She does, for a while, but just can't help herself after the bedroom goes silent. It's like she's worried that I might not be breathing.

My migraine is like a wound that bleeds. I fight to staunch the flow, and eventually a scab forms. If that scab is left alone, it will form a solid barrier for the wound and allows it to heal. Disturb that scab, and the blood flows again, and you have to restart the process.

Almost like hiccups. I have a perfect way to stop them, but I can't disturb the process for fear of ruining the whole thing.