Hemiplegic migraines suck.
I spent the better part of the last week not able to speak. My dear hubby who has been excellent at decoding my chipmunky-migraine speak, was even at a loss several times. One conversation went something like this:
Hubs: “Did you just say you wanted to punt down the Thames in your underwear?”
Me: “No, hon, I was wondering if you would bring the other chair in here.”
Frustrating to say (or squeak) the least. I finally resorted to rude hand gestures and written notes. It has been about three months since all this nonsense began, and I am not seeing an end in sight. The miracle medicine? Increasing the dose made me want to jump off a building…possibly literally. And that was at just half of the dose I was supposed to be on. I am far too stubborn to do anything of the sort. I want to meet this head on and beat it, not succumb to it. Saturday morning was the worst day. I just felt awful. My very wise, very brave man zipped up his flame-resistant suit and told me maybe I needed to decide to be happy.
Could I get happy? Could I get up each morning not knowing if I was going to be able to speak? If I was going to be in terrible pain? If half of my face was going to look goofy? (Vain, I know, but a legitimate grumble.)
In a word, yes.
By Sunday, I decided to go all Gandalf on the thing which I have dubbed the Balrog of Morgoth. Armed with a plethora of Advil tablets, I hollered at the beast, “You shall not pass!”
I kept my voice.
The Balrog is a nasty opponent. The battle is far from over, but with prayer, more Advil, and my upcoming neurology appointment on Wednesday, I am prepared to keep fighting for my health and my happiness. I have a fellowship of friends to pray with me and for me, and a hubby who probably would go punting on the Thames in his underwear with me if I really asked him to. What more could a girl want?