Migraines, Torture and Lizzie McGuire

About halfway through The Lizzie McGuire Movie, I screamed out, “Stop! I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just please don’t hurt me any more!”

I have a nine year old daughter – I have had to sit through a lot of really bad movies. The Lizzie McGuire thing was exceptionally bad. Someone must have really needed the money for that flaming piece of doggy doo to have been made.

But, while I was suffering through it, at least deep down, I knew that if I really couldn’t stand it any more, I could just take my daughter and leave the theater. I could make it up to her easily enough, and no one would have to suffer.

That’s also the great thing about being tortured for information. When you absolutely can’t stand the pain anymore, you can always tell the bastards what they want to know. Sure, you’ll be judged harshly by people who have never been tortured, and therefore, imagine that they could have withstood the abuse for much longer. But, hey, no matter what anyone says, it’s sticks and stones that break bones, not words and side long glances.

I think I could withstand torture quite well – I get migraines. I can’t count the number of times I have asked my husband to kill me. He won’t do it, of course, and I guess that’s a good thing. But, I really do mean it when I say it.

Naturally, all of my headaches aren’t that bad. Sometimes if I catch a migraine at the start and take an Imitrex, I never have to say those three little words that say so much, “Kill … me … now.”

But, when I let one of my more intense migraines go too far, I begin to see lovely auras around everything, which might seem like a neat effect, if it weren’t accompanied by a stabbing yet all consuming pain throughout my cranium. Everything is way too loud and much too bright, and every little detail of my life becomes too intense to endure. Did I mention the throbbing pain in my head so severe that I pray for death? I think I did.

So, it was with this type of migraine that I found myself at the Immediate Care Center, begging in my firmest whisper for a shot . I was sweating like I had just run a marathon, I smelled of vomit and I was wearing my fuzzy green grinch slippers. Sometimes life takes you places you never thought it would!

An explanation might be in order. I was wearing the slippers, because I couldn’t bear the thought of bending over to put on real shoes. I smelled of vomit, because I managed to throw up twice during the two block drive there (and once again in the parking lot for good measure). I don’t quite know why I was sweating. Maybe my body was desperately trying to excrete the pain through my skin.

But, in the end, it didn’t matter how pathetic I looked or how bad I smelled. The center was on a three hour wait. Although the people behind the desk seemed very sympathetic toward me and maybe a little grossed out by me, there was nothing they could do. They suggested I go to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.

I crawled back out to the car.

There is a moral to this story: You are better off dealing with thugs or enemy agents than health-care professionals. The thugs will usually make it quick after you tell them where to find the money. But, it doesn’t matter how much cash you show them at the Immediate Care Center or even the hospital, it’s still going to be a three hour wait.