voices
OREGO N S LGBTO N EW S M A G A ZIN E
M A R C H 18, 2011
37
the necessity o f explanation as I jump off the
A Guest in My Brain Stem
bus into blinding sunlight.
Migraneurs, as we are so fancily called, were
once considered to be o f a certain personality
I am at my desk when it strikes, the tele
type— clean, precise, high-strung, the W ASP-y
phone slipping through my tingling fingers to
kind who arrive at their doctor appointments
1
fall against the office floor. “Shit, “ I say aloud
with neatly typed lists o f the dates and times
B Y N IC K M A T T O S
as I look up to the blurry clock reading 2:15.
their brains rebelled against them. The key
Migraneurs, as we are so fancily
“W h at’s wrong?” my cube-mate asks.
My hands reach up to cover my face. “I need
to go home. I have a migraine coming on.”
Basilar-type migraine, a doctor once scrawled
in my medical file, explaining the headaches
accompanied by vertigo, ringing in the ears and
difficulty speaking that makes me slur like a
drunk. My grandmother had them, my father
had them, and now I am on the Line 15 bus,
chewing the inside o f my lip with eyes closed
each time the recorded voice announces our
stops along N W 23rd, having them as well.
called, were once considered to be
of a certain personality type— clean,
precise, high-strung, the WASP-y
kind who arrive at their doctor
guerrilla war with my own life, during weeks of
turns in my door and I walk in, stepping over
small household confusions, lost laundry, un
piles of books and clothing with eyes half
happy help, canceled appointments, on days
closed, falling into an unmade bed, knowing
when the telephone rings too much and I get no
that I do not have the “migraine personality.” I
work done and the wind is coming up. On days
pull the pillow over my eyes and ears, hearing
like that my friend comes uninvited.”
the rhythmic sound o f my breath and watching
The bus’ robotic voice announces that we
appointments with neatly typed lists
of the dates and times their brains
rebelled against them.
the colors o f the migraine aura shimmer.
are now on the east side o f the river, my tem
I wake up— 10:15. The day is gone, the
ples pounding along with the cadence o f the
streetlight outside shining through my closed
recorded speech. “I have quite the migraine
blinds, and I sit upright full o f an odd mix o f
coming on,” I tell Racquel, squinting.
exhaustion and relief. “Love is a universal mi
“Oh no!” she says, concern softening her
graine / A bright stain on the vision / Blot
Migraines are still a mystery to the medical
“In general, good,” I tell her, and it’s true.
establishment, with warring factions identify
Things are positively smashing right now: My
I don’t bother to correct her. A migraine
he’s correct. Migraneurs, like blackout drink
ing a variety o f possible causes. However, right
work is challenging and interesting, my boy
includes a headache, o f course; however, it’s
ers, are given brief respite from reason, run
now it doesn’t matter if something is wrong in
friend is handsome and supportive, my inner
more o f a full-body crisis, a presence that
ning home with faulty motor function to hide
my brain stem, or in my occipital lobe, or in my
and creative lives are interfacing very nicely with
overtakes the brain and the gut, that leaves
in their rooms, falling unconscious with sick
moral fiber— but something is wrong. A deep
the banal life o f taxes and commutes. There are
the limbs full o f pins and needles. The differ
stomachs and dreadful guests in their brains.
rift has formed between the way my body is
small annoyances, a dull sense o f dread off in my
ence between a migraine— an episode o f a
My guest is gone for now, and reason— the
supposed to work according to the pages o f
peripheral vision, general yet manageable anxi
neurological disease, a thunderstorm deep
world o f office telephones and bus schedules,
textbooks and the way it is trying to work now,
eties; however, through some terrible arithmetic
within the skull— and a tension headache, the
friends and lovers, family history and the
and I just need to get home.
the annoyances and dread and anxiety have
sort that actually responds to Advil and allows
guerilla war I wage with my life— is back. I
I feel a cold hand slide onto mine. M y eyes
added up in my brain stem, choking a vein. “It
you to stay at your desk for the day rather
sigh heavily in my dark room, and smile.
open, and through the shimmering vision o f
never comes when I am in real trouble,” Joan
than curl beneath it, is immense.
my migraine aura I see Racquel. “Hey, sweet
Didion wrote o f her migraines. “It comes in
“Eleventh Avenue,” the robotic voice an
ie!” she exclaims cheerfully. “H ow ’s it going?”
stead when I am fighting not an open but a
nounces as 1 pull the yellow cord, freed from
O w
en s
, S n
eller
, P
in z e l ik
& W
o od
, P .C .
serving the community since 1975
A ttorneys
S e r v in g O
reg o n
at
eyes. “I had a bad headache yesterday, too.”
0
ting out reason,” wrote Robert Graves, and
N ic k M a t t o s welcomes your anti-migraine
recommendations at nickmattos@justout.com.
ft tfi
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Slice, 2011
Portland Monthly, March, 2011
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