Lost Days

Yesterday was my husband's birthday. I remember almost none of it. I spent the evening in a daze of blinding pain trying not to throw up or look sick in front of my family. This morning I woke to pick up the pieces: the pile of still wet swim clothes I don't remember where they came from, the disaster in our kitchen floor, the review I didn't write yesterday.

I met my husband and some coworkers for a nice lunch, then spent the afternoon doing carpool and music lessons with the kids before dinner. I could feel the headache building at lunch, but hoped to stave it off before things got too bad. After lunch, I returned home and did I don't know what. That's right, I spent several hours in my home with no idea what I did. Maybe I read, maybe I slept, maybe I sat and stared blankly. What I didn't do is the laundry, or the dishes, or work on the conference I'm planning, or anything else tangible.

I made it out of the house in time to be only slightly late to the first carpool line, but still early to the second. I bumbled through the kids' first music lessons at a new music school. (Note: a children's music school may top the list of terrible places to go with a migraine.) After dropping off my niece and nephew I drove home and the really, really bad part hit. The nausea threatened to overwhelm me and the blackness tugged at the corners of my vision. I fought back. For myself, and for my family.

At home my husband selected one of our favorite sushi places for his birthday dinner. He loaded the kids int he car and graciously allowed me a few moments alone in the restroom to get things under control. As we drove off, he even offered to take the kids and leave me home alone in the quiet. An offer I almost took him up on! But I wasn't going to miss his birthday dinner.

I was present in body anyway. I remember almost nothing of the meal except the overwhelming urge to put my head on the cold table, or better yet the counter with the fish in it. I'm not sure why putting my head on cold fish sounded so appealing . . . . but looking back, I'm not sure about a lot of last night. I'd like to think that I tried to be present and pleasant . . .

On the way home I got in the car, and woke up in our driveway. Woke up isn't the right word, but I don't know what is. Woke up seems to imply a restful sleep instead of a blind stupor. I don't know what happened; the time just vanishes. And then suddenly, it's later.

The pain hits in waves. Some with more nausea, some with more pounding, some with such overwhelming force that I just freeze into a zombie and don't remember. As each wave passes I get a break. A short time with sanity and memory and functionality. I try to capitalize on that.

I put my kids to bed quickly with lots of hugs and snuggles. During the reprieve I was able to be a good mother. Then I slumped into my rocking chair for I don't know how long to recover.

I tried to watch the game, but gave up and went to bed. This morning I was greeted with leftover chaos. I didn't sign my daughter's folder last night. I don't know if she did her homework. I have texts I didn't return, and messages, and e-mails.

I spend today trying to pick up the pieces. Sign the contract. Start the laundry. Return calls. At least I didn't forget my son had a doctor's appointment. The pain still shoots through my head and I rest frequently, but at least for today I'm functional.

Yesterday, I did the best I could. I made the coffee. I didn't miss the birthday dinner. I hugged my kids.

Yesterday. Yesterday is a lost day. At least mostly. I didn't do much and I don't remember much, but it was still a day. A day in my life. A day that I can never live again.