I remember when I first started getting the migraines. It was in the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school when I got the worst headache I'd ever had.
If only I knew they'd just get worse from there.
My aunt lives in Georgia, and I decided to spend two weeks of my summer helping to watch her one-year-old son while she was at work during the day. I had a lot of fun with him, but he was work. He was very into climbing the stairs and waiting for me momentarily at the top. If I didn't get him during this break, he would venture into his parents room with the mission to destroy.
Overall, lots of exercise and fun times.
Around the time that I was supposed to be leaving, my mom and aunt had coordinated to meet halfway and exchange me--common practice, totally fine--in two weeks' time. So I washed all my clothes and stayed longer. I was kind of bummed to not be able to go home as planned, but I didn't complain. I usually just went with the flow.
Then one night after my aunt came home, I had to break it to her that I had to retire early for the evening, just as she was settling in. I had the biggest headache and I couldn't keep up with the kid, nor his two-year-old brother who my aunt brought home from daycare on her way back from work. She was tired and I felt bad, but she saw this and let me go.
In the room, I cried in pitch darkness with a pillow over my head. You know the tears that flow when you're laying sideways and they trail over the bridge of your nose to explore the other side of your face, all while your nose is getting all stuffy and you have to sit up if you wanna breathe? Well, yeah. Some of that happened. And I quickly sobered when I heard footsteps coming softly up the stairs, the two boys laughing along to Peppa Pig or something of the sort downstairs.
My aunt pushed the door open very gently. "Oh wow, Charity, are you feeling this bad?"
I refrained from sniffling because I didn't want her to worry so much. "My head is hurting really badly."
"Your uncle will be back soon," she told me, referring to her pharmacist husband. "I will let you rest, but when he comes home I'll ask him what to give you. We have a lot of stuff for headaches, but I'm not sure," she went on in her quiet, lilting voice.
"Thank you," I mumbled from beneath the pillow, still.
"I'm sorry about your headache. I hope you feel better," she tossed over her shoulder as she made her way out of the door.
When I woke up again, the two-year-old was nudging me gently. "Mommy said come downstairs," he communicated through his thick lisp that turned s-sounds to sh-sounds. I begrudgingly pulled myself out of the bed and my head pounded mercilessly.
"I'm coming," I told him. He hummed as he went out of the door and took the stairs slowly. I could hear both of his little feet patting down each of the carpeted stairs. I spent some time preparing myself to stand up and face the light that was beyond the dark, lovely, quiet room.
When I got downstairs, my uncle's voice boomed out, "Charity, Charity." He was speaking more quietly than he usually did, but his voice was deep, so it always seemed to boom. He extended a hand that contained a medicine cup with two large pills inside. "Did you eat dinner?"
I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."
"You should eat something before you take that," he warned me. I grabbed a banana. "I hope you feel better," he spoke before putting the pill bottle back in the medicine cabinet and replacing the child lock.
