I chuckle as I drop the soggy contents right in the driver’s seat. After locking and closing his truck door, I wipe my hands and saunter back to my house.
Screw being friendly. He’s rude. He keeps me up all night. And he’s, well, he’s every dirty little word my mind is too tired to think up right now.
This is war.
Stripping my wet shirt off and tossing it in the bathroom as I pass by, I head to my bedroom and find my old, comfy robe tucked in the back of my closet.
“Oh, thank goodness, my pretty.” I smile as I snuggle into the coziness, grateful Viv didn’t throw it away with all my sweatpants, then flop down on my bed. Today can screw itself. I did something, that’s enough. Grabbing a pillow and hugging it, I squeeze my eyes shut. As memories of my first migraine cloud my mind, I drift off to sleep.
“Doctor,” my mom practicallybegs, “what is wrong with my daughter?”
My head hurts. That’s what’s wrong. Like somebody stuck a drill straight to my temple and held it at full blast, pain radiates through my skull, exploding into the squishy part of my brain.
I stop clenching my head and crying long enough to throw up all over the gown the nurses made me change into when we first arrived at the emergency room.Luckily, some of it made it into the third, tiny, lima bean shaped bowl they’ve given me since we arrived an hour ago. Pain medication or even nausea meds would be better, but sure, let’s give the girl crying in pain and puking a tiny bowl and a gown. Good choice.
“We’ll run some tests, see if it’s the flu or maybe food poisoning. Start there and hopefully we get an answer.”
“Head . . . My. Head,” I manage to croak for the fifth time as I try to squeeze the pain out.
“Hmm.” The doctor bends down until he’s almost face level with my crouching figure. “Let me check . . .” He draws out the words while he selects a pen light from his lab coat pocket and flashes it in my face.
I jerk back, making some weird noise like a cat being strangled. Pain flares through my entire head as little, golden stars dance before my eyes. I swear they are real, not like the itsy-bitsy, white ones when you try and do a cartwheel for the first time in three years. I reach for them, only to grasp at thin air.
Clasping my hand, my mom cocks her head to the side. “Honey?”
“There . . . There are stars.”
The doctor checks his chart once more, then flashes his light in my face again, causing another burst of little, glowing orbs to cloud my vision. Cringing, I try to look away, but he holds my chin steady for a moment before standing and addressing my mom.
“I think she might be having a migraine.”
“Migraine?” My mom shakes her head. “She’s only seventeen.”
“It’s not uncommon for them to start this early. Is she under a lot of stress?”
They keep talking like I’m not even in the room. I want to tell them it’s okay, I’ll just huddle in my little ball on the ER gurney beside them, trying not to die. It's not like I’m screaming in agony without any help or anything. But, my head hurts too bad to formulate the words.
“I’d like to run a spinal tap, rule out the possibility of spinal migraines.”
Spinal what?
I jerk my head up toward him, then groan as more pain assaults my brain, and I start dry heaving.It hurts worse than actually throwing up.
“Okay,” my mom agrees without even consulting me or asking what this spine thing is. Yay for still being a minor.
My back doesn’t hurt. My head does. And my stomach. A little, but I’m pretty sure that’s from all the throwing up. Really, it’s all my head.
After the doctor leaves, Nana rushes in, bumping into chairs and equipment as she hurries toward me.
“What did the doctor say? What’s wrong with her?”
“They don’t know yet. He’s running some tests. You didn’t have to come all this way, Mom. We don’t even know what this is.”
“Nonsense, I’m only an hour away.” She pushes past my mom and hugs me. “Now what exactly are they doing?”
“He wants to do a spinal tap.”
Pursing her lips, she rubs my back. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”