Migraine

I must have been 11 or 12 the first time it hit me. I was sitting in the back seat with my friend Paula as her father drove us to a friend’s birthday party when I suddenly had a horrible nauseous headache.  I don’t remember what happened after that but I assume Paula’s dad took me home.

That was my first migraine attack which I later learned is often tied to hormonal changes.  Thus mine began with puberty,  and periodically for decades I suffered those debilitating nauseous headaches when it felt as if a tight rubber band was pressing on my temples.  And altho I don’t remember broadcasting my ills,  among friends it seems my headaches were legendary.  (See Carving Mr Pumpkin)

Today there are many migraine medicines on the market,   but back then there was no sure fire treatment,  so I’d lie in a darkened bedroom,  a cold compress on my forehead,  and wait to throw up – the one thing that eventually brought relief.

Once I was so sick at work my husband had to come and get me,  and once I was so distraught he brought me to a hospital emergency room.

I did consult a neurologist who questioned how often I suffered,  and for how long.  When I told her it happened 3 or 4 times a year with the attacks lasting an hour or so until I felt sick enough to throw up,  she said I should thank my lucky stars I wasn’t suffering monthly as some women do.   And she advised I try Ipecac,  an over-the-counter syrup that hastens antiperistalsis – in other words makes you throw up.   And so I always kept a bottle on hand –  until people with eating disorders began to abuse it to empty their stomachs,  and then Ipecac became a prescription med.

One day at work the subject of migraine came up over lunch.  My colleague Alex said his wife Beth suffered migraines monthly,  and often so badly he’d have to take her to the emergency room for relief.   Once,  he told us,  as Beth lay moaning on a hospital gurney,  a doctor told them that migraine  headaches can be alleviated by sexual intercourse.

Alex leaned over the gurney.  “Did you hear that?”  he asked his wife.  “Do you wanna try?”

Beth looked up at her husband.  “Fuhgeddaboudit.”   she said thru clenched teeth.

Postscript

The neurologist had also told me that dark chocolate and red wine can be migraine triggers,  and so for years I abstained from both.   But thankfully since the hormonal changes that came with menopause my migraines have ceased.

And so now I eat the chocolate,  and I drink the wine,  but first I raise my glass to everyone’s good health!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

And like magic, the water didn’t crash over us and tumble us around, it just lifted us up and then down, our toes touching the sand again.  It was wonderful.
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Swimming

Ah, swimming. That timeless activity – unless, of course, you consider the few unfortunate souls who haven’t yet grasped its aquatic glory. Evidence suggests most humans have been splashing around since the Stone Age, which, let’s be honest, is basically yesterday compared to the grand scheme of things. Here’s the kicker: even those toga-clad fellows in ancient Greece and Rome considered swimming a martial art. Can you imagine the intimidation factor? “Prepare to meet your doom, barbarian horde! I, Leonidas, shall vanquish you with a devastating… freestyle!”

Me? Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly born with flippers for feet. Unlike Michael Phelps, I didn’t emerge from the womb with a built-in breaststroke. My childhood consisted more of building elaborate sandcastle empires than conquering the high seas (or, more accurately, the kiddie pool). It wasn’t until junior high school, fueled by a potent combination of youthful bravado and the desperate need to escape a particularly soul-crushing philosophy lecture, that I decided to tackle this aquatic Everest.

The local indoor pool, bless its chlorinated heart, became my training ground. Picture this: an almost grown-up, flailing about like a particularly ungraceful sea lion, desperately trying to master the backstroke. It wasn’t pretty. But hey, perseverance is a virtue, right? Eventually, I graduated from the shallow end to venturing into the “deep end,” which, let’s be honest, was still only about chest-high. But progress is progress, folks!

Now, the question remains: where’s the best place to flaunt my (somewhat questionable) swimming prowess? The ocean? Absolutely breathtaking, but let’s be real, the constant threat of rogue waves and jellyfish stings isn’t exactly conducive to a relaxing dip. Lakes? Sure, if you enjoy the thrill of potentially encountering nature’s mystery meat – a submerged log, a discarded tire, and remember that fish piss in ponds and lakes (and the ocean.) For me, the good ol’ fashioned indoor swimming pool reigns supreme. Predictable (in the best way possible), clean (most of the time), and with a steady supply of chlorine-scented towels – what more could a swimmer ask for?

Of course, I wouldn’t be living the full human experience without acknowledging the many water-averse peoples. Look, I get it. The vast unknown can be intimidating. But let me tell you, friends, overcoming that fear is an achievement of epic proportions. Plus, think of the bragging rights! “Yeah, I used to be terrified of a little H2O, but now I can conquer swimming with the best of them.” See? Instant legend status.

So, the next time you find yourself poolside or shore-side, don’t be afraid to take the plunge. You might just discover a hidden aquatic talent, or at least manage a halfway decent doggy paddle. And who knows, maybe you’ll even inspire some poor younger souls to conquer their fear of swimming. Just remember, when it comes to swimming, the only true failure is remaining on dry land. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the freestyle lane or a questionable outdoor tan line.

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