If you’ve never experienced a migraine or cluster headache, you probably think those who suffer through them are crybabies.  If you’ve ever had a minor migraine, you probably think they’re a piece of cake.  However, when people tell me they have them, I expect them to be like mine, or at least somewhat close.

     I’ve said before that I’ve suffered from them — doctors have told me different things about whether or not they’re migraines, cluster headaches or cluster migraines, or maybe a mixture of things — for over 30 years, but thinking back a little more, I wonder if I didn’t have them from birth.  I can remember a few instances of lying in the floor of a trailer we moved out of when I was four years old, in pain, unable to move, being blinded by the sunlight coming in the bedroom window.  Where most mothers would have taken their children to a doctor and showed some concern, mine simply decided that I had no tolerance for pain.
     As a matter of fact, save for a single trip to the emergency room where I was paralyzed — my father drove me — I never received any actual “treatment” until I was eighteen and able to get my own medical advice.

     I described the pain a few months ago.  It’s constant, persistent, assymetrical, and becomes more intense as time drags on.  Left unchecked, it will develop into something very akin to having a large portion of your skull removed with a jagged ripsaw while someone else digs into the open bone with a high-speed drill.
     If you can’t imagine that, try this: cover a piece of ice in aluminium foil and bite down on it as hard as you can with your most sensitive tooth.  While taking a baseball bat to the back of the head and have a red-hot fire poker jabbed into your eyes repeatedly.
     And now, that you’ve imagined that, imagine that it’s constant.

     It’s a threshhold-of-pain incident where you can’t make it any worse and pass out, and you can’t do anything else to make it tolerable.  Often, you’ll lose control of your bodily functions, causing you to defecate, urinate and vomit all over yourself.  Sometimes, you’ll end up paralyzed — not from fear that movement will cause pain, but because your legs simply won’t work.
     It’s a sort of pain that makes you pray to God to end your life.  Forsaken and alone, it makes you wonder what kind of “loving Father” would allow children to experience that kind of Hell.  Suicide seems logical — if not necessary — to make the pain stop, as you know for certain that Hell will not be as excruciating.  Torture is for pansies!  You curse yourself for not having the ability to die by your own hand, and then curse God for not taking your life for you.  Finally, you have no choice but to relent that there is no God.  You curse your body.  You curse your Life.  You curse everyone around you.  You curse the Universe.
     When it finally ends, you’re so fragile and exhausted you can’t even appreciate the fact that it’s over.  Your memory is cloudy, and if you’re lucky enough to remember everything you did, it’s often hard to understand why.  You probably have a lot of apologizing to do, and have a hard time trying to superimpose “normal” over all of your mania.
     And, more than anything, you’re terrified, knowing that one day, it’ll happen again.

     According to a report I read this morning, I’m not alone. 

The nationwide study of 1,007 migraine sufferers was conducted by The Gallup Organization for Cerenex Pharmaceuticals. It found that the pain of migraine is so excruciating that 35% of sufferers indicate that they have wished they were dead during an attack. In addition, a significant number rated migraine as being more painful than childbirth (19%), a broken bone (28%), arthritis (33%), athletic injuries (42%), and a bad burn (42%).

Ninety-three percent of migraine sufferers have used over-the-counter (OTC) or nonprescription pain relievers to treat their headache. Forty-nine percent of those who take OTC medications noted that these nonprescription pain relievers are not successful in alleviating the pain. A similar number admitted that they take more of these OTC pain relievers than recommended.

Approximately 57% said that migraine makes them feel “out of control,” while 73% stated that their daily activities are limited or impaired, including leisure pursuits (49%), socializing (50%), and driving (45%).

While not a psychological disorder, migraine can have a psychological impact on the sufferer. Fifty-eight percent felt that it has reduced their ability to enjoy life; approximately half have feelings of anxiety (54%) and helplessness (48%); and 41% experience depression.

Migraine affects more than the sufferer. Seventy-two percent noted that it has hurt their ability to take care of family and personal responsibilities, and 64% believe it has a negative effect on family or others around them. “Migraine often impacts the entire family,” explains Margaret Abernathy, director, Headache Treatment Center, Georgetown University Medical Center. “If sufferers are not seeking proper help to manage migraine, they often find themselves retreating to a dark room for the duration of the attack. This obviously has an effect on the sufferers’ ability to function normally in family and social situations.”

     From 7AM last Tuesday morning until around midnight on Friday, I went through one of the worst episodes in years, although the severity changed dramatically from hour to hour.  The last time I can remember one being “Emergency Room” bad was nearly six years ago. The last time I can remember it paralyzing me was maybe ten years ago.  Then again, my memory’s still a bit foggy…
     Regardless, absolutely nothing would help.  Wednesday, I cried the entire day.  Thursday, my legs ceased to work.  I got stuck in the floor in an upright fetal position, unable to move myself onto the bed.  The Wildcat struggled like Hell to move me, all bent up and deadweight, and I was completely unable to help her help me.  Some time later, I drug myself — by my arms — into the bathroom and over the edge of the tub into hot-only water where I laid on my left side for God knows how long.  I couldn’t feel the burn until Friday afternoon.  I incorrectly assumed all my itching was an allergic reaction from the massive amount of Advil I was eating.

     My Wildcat … All she could do was watch helplessly and insist that I get to the hospital to be treated — in retrospect, at least ten times.  I stupidly and stubbornly refused.  Rightfully so, I believe she guessed that since I refused treatment, I probably wasn’t that bad.  A terrible error in judgement on my part…  How could she not think that?  [ Note to my Wildcat: Baby, I am so sorry. You did try, God, and I simply wouldn't let you help. That was really stupid of me. ]
     The truth is, there’s a reason I never want to go.  When you’re blind, half-paralyzed and manic, they make it more difficult with all their paperwork and waiting and stupidity, and it’s easier to just lie there wanting to die.
     Most of the time, even if you a get there, they treat you like a drug addict, a second rate criminal, even though you clearly need pain medication.  After a point, there isn’t a lot they can do but shoot you up and wait it out.  And they’re so antsy at that point, they rarely give you enough to stop the attack… it just makes me a little more manageable.

     On Friday, I finally relented and saw a doctor.  I was immediately referred to the ER, thus skipping a lot of the usual BS.  Sure, I still ended up with the “addict” stigma from the ER doc, but he was righteously chastised by the staff for it.
     Later that day, another regular doctor actually listened, and prescribed me something useful.  He chastised me for waiting so long, and warned me that as I’m getting older, an established headache will be more intense and harder to get rid of.  ”Take your medication as soon as you feel it coming on!  Do not wait like this again!  Next time you may not come out of it so well!”

     It was an altogether different experience.  ER doc aside, they all took really good care of me.  There was concern.  They helped.  They checked up on me.  Very different than the usual McHealthcare fare…

     Do you want fries with that?  Thank you.  Drive through.

     To top it all … I’m certain that there are people who have it even worse.

     Today — well, yesterday, since it’s after midnight — was my birthday.

     All I got was grief, with a bit of hardcore depression thrown in for good measure.

     I can only expect the present trend to continue.

     I had a nasty migraine starting last night, but I managed to push it away with a ton of salt, a bit of exercise and a massive dose of Advil.  It reminded me…  

     It’s been on my file forever.  “Allergic to Acetominophen.”  Whether it’s Tylenol or Generic.  It gives me migraines.

     As the sufferer of some of the most horrible migraines imaginable for over thirty years — the sort that hurt intensely, and actually cause paralysis if I don’t do something about them ASAP — I’ve had reason to get plenty of pain medication prescribed to me.  I’ve kept my consumption down, too, and never become “addicted” to any sort of pills.  As a matter of fact, I hate taking them, which has resulted in my ending up in the emergency room more than a few times.

     Which brings me to my first reason for distrusting the medical professional intensely…

     These migraines rise up the back of my neck, and eventually consume the entire top of my head and roll down to my cheekbones.  My forehead thickens and swells, as does the back of my neck.  It’s a pain reaction — histamines get produced to fight off something that’s not even there.
     The pain itself is astounding.  According to my aunt who gets the same sorts that I get, “Oh, I’ve had one child.  Even delivery wasn’t anywhere near that painful!”
     If you’ve ever had metal touch your raw bone, or chewed aluminium foil with your teeth, you know that familiar feeling — like an electric shock.  Now imagine that it’s constant.  Imagine that someone has taken a buzz saw, and is actively chopping sections of your cranium.  Now imagine that someone else is taking a high-speed electric drill and drilling sideways through those raw sections of bone.
     Eventually, the neurons of your brain flood with so much pain information that voluntary motor skills begin to cease.  You’re left with a body that knows absolutely nothing but intense pain, and your legs simply won’t work.  And then your hands… 
     Of course, at some point, you have no choice but to get someone to take you to the emergency room.  If you don’t someone will end up taking you when you’re lying in the floor, unable to move…
     The “healthcare professionals” refuse to help you until you fill out paperwork, with hands that won’t work, and you’re trying to remember and relay things to whoever’s taken you there… which is really difficult when you’re hurting so badly you’d seriously consider taking a bullet to the head to make the pain stop.
     Eventually, after all of that time, they see you, and immediately do absolutely nothing for you.  They treat you like a criminal, like you’re a dirty drug addict looking for a fix.  Your frustration begins to show through… Twice I’ve ended up in restraints when I was paralyzed — because they act like I’ll be able to miraculously get up, walk over and cause them physical harm…. RIGHT!
     And eventually, you end up with a $1500 medical bill and went through some three hours of torturous pain, when you could’ve just popped two or three hydrocodones and saved $1500 and two hours of Hell.

     It’s unforgivable.

     The second problem I have is the fact that immediately after they finally get off their lazy asses to actually do something helpful in these situations, I’m not in my right mind.
     This is why they make mothers rest immediately after delivery, and why torture goes hand-in-hand with brainwashing: when you’re under the influence of the worst possible pain imaginable, and it suddenly stops, you are euphoric and emotional.  You are subject to suggestions that you wouldn’t otherwise agree to in a million years.
     Yet, they always usher me towards the billing department… Greed.

     That is unforgivable.

     My third and last reason for mistrust…

      The hydrocodone they give me is nasty.  It works, mind you, when I absolutely need it.  But one of the reasons I only use it as a last resort is because of the massive hangover it gives me.  Once it wears off, I feel like I’ve been on a week-long drinking binge and I may hurt for days, although, the it’s nothing compared to the pain of these migraines.  But it certainly affects my mood and attitude for a few days.

     A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a few people who happen to be part of the medical profession, and relating some of this.
     “What kind of hydrocodone?”
     “Well, the last time they gave me these massive Vicodin which gave me the spins so bad I couldn’t even lie down and sleep,” I told them.  “I prefer the Lorcet Plus.”
      “Uhhh, you shouldn’t take those,” I was warned.
      “Why not?  They’re hydrocodone and ibuprofen.  Every doctor and pharmacist I’ve ever spoken to has told me that I need the pain relief and the anti-inflammatory.”
     “Uhhh, hydrocodone doesn’t have ibuprofen.  APAP is acetominophen.”
     “I’m allergic to acetominophen… it gives me migraines…”
     “Exactly…”

     So basically, they — forty some doctors and pharmacists — have voluntarily lied to me while exacerbating the situation, put me through years of unnecessary Hell, and I’m damn lucky not to have ended up dead from an anurism.
     Thanks, assholes!  Fuck you very much!

     Absolutely unforgivable.

     So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  That is why I have no intention of paying my medical bills.  They owe me.  They’ve destroyed my quality of life for all these years.

     And the bad part?  Our healthcare is still better than anyone elses…

     Well, last Tuesday afternoon, I felt really, really tired all of a sudden.  Zacque and I hit Barley’s for a burger and a beer, and by the end of that late lunch, I felt like I was ready to fall over dead.  I came home, and fell asleep until Wednesday.
     Wednesday, I felt like hammered Hell.  My throat was on fire, swollen, and no amount of anything would make it feel better.  Zacque drug me out to Sitar for an Indian feast, which made me feel quite a bit better that night…
     Unfortunately, by Thursday night, I required medical attention for a skyrocketing fever and an inability to swallow.

     Yep … Strep throat.  Bad.

     On Friday, my personal hotti—err, nurse, rather — showed up to assist me with the healing process.  On Saturday night, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Well, I may be a Kentucky Wildcat, but you’re always a Volunteer!” *melt!*
     Mmmhmm… So I was repeatedly mauled by said Kentucky Wildcat, but she took it a little easier on me than the last few weekends.  Resulting injuries were minor, and can only be described as an attempted suffocation followed by a near drowning.  *cough*  I mean, hey, who needs nose cartilage, anyway, right?  *cough*

     Anyway … *cough* Ahem! … she fixed me up as best she could, kept me hydrated, fed me well, made sure I slept (*snicker*), oversaw my medication (Advil & Penicillin), and took very good care of me… Right down to the point this morning where I hacked out a mass of infection from between my tonsils and adenoids that was damn near the size of a friggin’ marble… I mean, OMFG, no wonder my throat was hurting so bad!

     And so, in feeling a little better, and the fact that we both had lives that we needed to get back to, I was really heartbroken to see her leave today… :-(  *snif*

     And still, I slept some more…

     So, hopefully, over the next couple of days, I’ll get back into the swing of things.

     I don’t get sick often — discounting the maybe-once-a-year sinus issue or something — but when I do, I get damn sick.  And it’s almost always some kinda funky-ass, in-the-wild bacteria, which is probably a good reason for me to stop hanging out in the woods, eating raw meat and wild produce, washing it down with water from mountain streams… but…
     I’ve done it all my life, ya know?

I’d like to say that my day was the product of many an adulterated hallucinogenic street drug.  You know, the kind you get from the rebellious children of hippies burnt out a long time ago.  

Unfortunately a drink called the “Toddy” is responsible.  Cold brewed coffee, the style that takes twelve hours as water slowly drips over the sultry grains of pulverized black gold.  Then, by the grace of God alone, it is poured out of the carafe and served on ice. If you like, there could be room left for cream.  If it were on draft, you’d have to slice it at the end of the pour to take it away from the tap.

It is a buzz like no other.

No side effects to report as of yet.  With the exception of almost clear clairvoyance and purity of thought.  A Zen-like state of premature enlightenment.

The kind of bliss that makes you want to write philosophical rhymes without reason on crumpled pieces of napkins while listening to old school trance music over the P.A.   All the while just sitting in a coffee shop, where you could stare at the walls for hours and be happy.  For the first time in this lifetime, I could be content sitting in an empty room with only my thoughts to entertain me.

Who knows what the night will entail?

What ever it may be, it most definately will be an interesting evening.

     In a surprise move yesterday, July 4th, 2007, 24-year-old Al Gore III proved that he’s more honest than his father, Al Gore, Jr.  Apparently excercising his own form of “independence,” the privileged pothead was pulled over and arrested for driving more than 100mph, and for possession of Marijuana and a number of other drugs… While high…
     The Al Gore, Jr., camp quickly came to the rescue, offering the explanation that the entire thing is a pubilicity stunt to show people that the hybrid-electric Toyota Prius can be driven at excessive speeds, therefore making it a reliable and viable alternative to traditional gasoline-powered combustion engines, all the while getting 55mpg.

     Apparently, Al Gore, Jr., thinks the rest of us are as full of shit as he is.

     It’s also worth noting the fact that a 1981 Subaru 1600DL would get 52mpg, and the 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier with the 1.8 OHC would get 49mpg, without all the excess hybridization… Those are actual mileages from real-time, personal experience.
     Instead of burning a little gas, Al Gore would have us all drive cars which are put together with numerous refined gases and petrochemical products.  This, of course, shows a need for more petrochemical refineries and plastic manufacturing plants, in addition to the astounding increase in global energy usage to manufacture things “a new way.”
     So, ummm, isn’t that certainly worse for emissions than a few more gas-guzzling SUV’s…?  All so that we can add a measly 5-8mpg?
     Am I missing something, or does the math not work?  Shouldn’t we be doing better?

     Can you say Voodoo Economics, boys and girls? 

     I knew you could.

Tip: Les Jones at his new blog, Rock Stars Against Live Earth.

When I pulled into the West High School parking lot to let my daughter out this morning, there was a wrecked car in front of  the door as a display for the cops’ D.A.R.E. presentation or something. To emphasize their point, the police had thoughfully filled the wrecked car with beer and cigarettes. Full cans of beer and new packs of smokes. Which, of course, were promptly stolen. Hopefully the kids were sober by the time they drove home from school that day…

Knob Lick

Bone Lick Circle

Big Bone Lick State Park

Beaver Bottom

Beaver

Bong Recreation Area

Pussy

Orgy

Or just stay home…

     Back in my “prime,” I was considered to be one of the most trustworthy people there ever was.  Family, Friends, Customers, Criminals, Police, Random Asshats and, especially, Politicians would tell me all their secrets.  I could keep my mouth shut.

     I was always very good at keeping my mouth shut.

     Eventually, their problems would become my problems, in trying to resolve the injustices in a given situation.  Still, though I would play Devil’s Advocate for a lot, I’d keep my mouth shut.]

     I was always good like that.  That why everyone felt they could trust me … Why they felt I could keep their secrets.

     Those are the things that keep me up at night.  Not my guilt — no, other peoples.

     And it pisses me off.
     Many months ago, I finally got the opportunity to meet one of the objects of my torment.  I beat his sorry ass to a bloody pulp, all the time lecturing him about why it was a stupid idea to put me in this situation.
     A few months later, he killed himself.

     Good.

     One less asshat in the world.

     Too bad the sorry piece of trash never had the balls to apologize to all the people he’d screwed over in his life.  Too bad he never apologized to those he’d confided in when he took the “easy way” out of his guilt.
     No, his worthless ass left everyone else holding the bag, just like he always did.
     The very sad part is, most people will say, “Don’t talk ill of the dead!”
     Why the Hell not?

     I mean, come on, if their bullshit has tormented you for years, why shouldn’t you just come right out and say it?

     And what the Hell was wrong with me that I never said it before?
     Tonight, for instance, I saw someone I haven’t seen in nearly ten years.  A sweet girl who I tried to look out for in the absence of her parents.  A sweet girl who just always seemed to make bad decisions.
     Several times, I took the fall when she messed up.  Several times, I beat on someone severely when she was in harm’s way. 
     She was one of many “homeless” kids back then, and that’s what I did.  I lived downtown, and I tried to keep them outta trouble.

     Still, eventually, things got really bad for her, despite my best intentions.
     Marriage to someone I’d known for a long time, a cloak & dagger psycho snooping around, and a mysterious disappearance as the outcome.

     A few years afterwards, I realized the “mysterious disappearance” wasn’t so mysterious, afterall.  I ended up meeting up with that specific party in another town (in the same state, mind you!) hanging out with a few other mutual friends.
     I kinda figured everyone knew, except this girl.

     Before I left the country seven years ago, I talked to her late, one night, and said, “Hey, about all that shit … you know, doncha?”
     “Yeah.”

     I kinda thought that was the end of it until I saw her again tonight.

     Eventually, reminscing about old times caught up with me.  And maybe her, too.
     Everybody’d else had known for seven years.  Everybody.

     But, it seems, nobody ever told her.

     Just one less secret for me to have to keep.

     I don’t like that … hate that situation.

     Especially between friends and family.
     It’s no damn wonder I feel like I’ve lost my mind, all these secrets.
     Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out how to tell people without telling them… Just get them thinking enough to figure them all out.

     In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep on keeping my mouth shut … keep on keep secrets that I don’t want …

     With other peoples’ guilt.

     Wish you pricks would spill the beans already, and quit leaving people like me hanging.

     Man, it’s 4AM and I’m still wide awake.  And I mean, mow the yard with a push-mower awake.

     It’s just not right.

     I’ve had this insomnia for … well … yeah, just more than a year.  Can’t sleep, no matter how hard I try.  Maybe it started as the restlessness of impending doom.
     Lovely people like to tell me, “It’s guilt that keeps you up at night!”  But it certainly isn’t guilt, and I just tell them, “Thanks!”

     Now, it’s the same thing.  No guilt.  More frustration. 
     A couple of weeks ago, I was prescribed Lunesta.  Nice one.  Calms my mind.  Makes me speak in coherent sentences.  Makes me dream, and remember.  I like that.
     But it sure as Hell doesn’t put me to sleep.

     I need sleep.

     Real sleep.