It announced itself early in the day, starting with stiffness in the neck, feverishness in the hands, in everything that crosses my mind. It exploded during the rehearsal of Ganymede. I resisted during the singing, came out of my defeated evening, ran a hot bath, managed to counter the harmful effects despite nausea. During the night, it woked me up after breathing in a stressful dream in which close friends made love to each other brazenly in front of me, in sweat, when I have no place to stay. I took double pills and went back to sleep. This morning, everything is okay, the evil is no longer there, but I am tired as if I was out of breath from my battle.
I’ve been used to big headaches for a long time. I don’t know if my memories are authentic, but it seems to me that often on Saturdays when I was at my parents’ house, I regularly experienced such nausea. It took me until I was in my thirties to decide to recognize the first signs of migraine and also to change some eating habits, to lose weight, to calm myself.
Evil is a mysterious imbalance. It can surely be explained afterward that this or that caused the eruption of nausea. I could, for example, put this on the new disability insurance I purchased when I renewed my mortgage. The insurance scumbags are asking me for $60 every two weeks. They tell me without telling me that my family history suggests that I am at risk and that, according to their statistics, I am one of those who will die sooner than later or that I will cost them an arm. Might as well warn.
But well, my grandmother has been anxious all her life and is not yet dead, at 99 and a half years old. My parents are doing pretty well, despite a few pitfalls, and are slowly moving towards the 80th number. I hope I have their DNA.
Still, everything is fine with me, it seems to me, even if I can interpret this migraine as a sign that not everything is perfect. But did I need this to remind myself of that? I have my problems, my questions, my contradictions. I’m not rich, I run on the spot, like Alice, so I don’t get more miserable. I’m getting older, so I sometimes swallow a little more water than usual, me who already can’t really swim. But I give thanks for my existence, I love life, I like to enjoy, I consent to cry, I try to be honest, and I quickly let myself be caught in the nets of love, friendship, and insurers.
So, is it dangerous, Doctor?