Migraines, Cats, and Me

I wake up and, like a bather testing the temperature of the water, I check the level of pain in my head.

On good days, I bound out of bed. Well, I bound as much as I can with a fat cat perched on my chest yelling for breakfast. On medium days, when a gentle current of pain eddies around in my head, I rise slowly, willing each step not to swell the surf into tidal waves.

On bad days, like today, I lie back in bed and wonder what sins I committed in past lives to be visited with such punishment in this one. I swallow, willing myself not to be sick. Although I'll feel better if I throw up, the thought makes me gag. Besides, it's been twelve hours since I ate and my stomach is empty. Instead, I concentrate on breathing, counting each breath to give my mind something to think about other than pain and nausea.

Unfortunately, cats don't understand the concept of migraine. All they know is they're hungry and the giver of all food is falling down on her job.

"Five more minutes," I whisper and pull the covers over my head.

By now a second cat has joined the caterwauling. The left side of my head pulses with each yowl. I scrunch my eyes tighter; it doesn't help. Soon one of my cats will dig under the covers to bite me.

I cautiously turn on my side and raise my body, the way I was taught in yoga – slowly and carefully so as not to jolt any part of me. I ease my legs over the edge of the mattress and rest. The cats have bounded off the bed and are swishing their tails against my legs to urge me to hurry.

But when you have a migraine, the word "hurry" doesn't exist.

Several deep breaths later, I'm ready to stand up. My feet find purchase on the floor and I inch myself off the bed. I straighten my back one vertebra at a time until I'm halfway between Cro Magnon and Homo Sapiens. For now, a round-shouldered stoop is as upright as I'm going to get.

I half-shuffle, half-slide into the next room to feed the felines. Once their dishes are full, they ignore me.

I continue shambling into the kitchen and grab my migraine medication. Third day in a row. Not good. This week has been particularly stormy and, for me, changes in barometric pressure cause migraines. Even though the meteorologist hadn't called for rain, my head told me differently. I've learned to listen to my head. It's seldom wrong.

I lurch back to bed. Luckily today isn't a teaching day so I have the luxury of sleeping through the worst of the pain. I pull the covers over me and castigate myself for having had too much coffee and chocolate the day before. While these substances, unlike red wine and colas, don't usually trigger migraines for me, I can never be sure.

Within twenty minutes the medication kicks in and the top layer of pain dissipates. As I drift off, a furry bundle plops himself against my hip, another plants herself on my legs. With their stomachs full, they've come to offer comfort and warmth. Either that, or they're hoping when I wake up again I'll have forgotten I already fed them.

I don't care. Right now, which is the only time that counts when you have a migraine, they're a loving antidote to pain.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, will be a better day. The cats purr their agreement.

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