WELL HERE I AM.
During my first year of college, I started getting dizzy on occasion. I would become disoriented, and I'd see rainbow splotches on my vision. The splotches were beautiful, but also scary, because human vision isn't supposed to rainbow splotch.
But nothing ever came of it. It would last for an hour or so, and then it would go away. No big deal.
You might remember that throughout most of college, I worked in fast food. Just typing those words makes me recall the smells of French fry grease and bleach water; the weight of the long, perky ponytail dangling down my back; the way I would sob into the soapy water with which I was deck-scrubbing the dining room floor at one a.m. when I still had to finish a paper before going to bed. (Actually, I don't remember now if I actually physically sobbed. Probably not, since the assistant manager was right there. But I was sobbing imaginary tears, I promise.)
We got free kid-sized drinks every day at work. I almost always got water. One day, though, I filled my little cup with Dr. Pepper, because I had a headache.
It started off small, that headache. Instead of going away, it got worse. Then it slowly wrapped around my head and bore down into my brain.
My mom often has migraines. I suspected that this was one.
I felt terrible. My head hurt so bad, and I was a little nauseated. Then I started getting dizzy. You'd think that might be a big cause for concern, but I figured I just needed to make it to the end of my shift, and then I could go home and rest.
I tell you, I almost made it. I had less than an hour left. A man walked up to my register and ordered a chicken basket. I started punching things on the register and suddenly realized that I could barely talk, barely stand, and that I had no idea how to get this man's chicken basket rung up. I smiled at him and told him I needed to step away for a moment. I walked into the back office and declared that someone needed to help the man at the counter because I was going to pass out.
I didn't pass out, but that wasn't much comfort to me. My face was numb. I could barely talk, barely remember words. La Petite, who worked with me at the time, said she thought I was having a stroke.
BOSS: You need to eat something.
I found enough words to tell her that I didn't have any money. I was probably exaggerating, but not much. The price of food at my place of employment was far too much considering how much money I allotted myself to spend each paycheck.(That amount was 20%, though I would cap my funds at lower amounts on the rare occasions I made a paycheck that was, say, $150-plus. During the school year my two-week paycheck was often around $60, meaning I had $12 to spend on entertainment for the next two weeks. I know that sounds terribly tightfisted, and it was, but I managed to fund my own trip to Europe that way so don't sneer.)
My boss bought me a chicken sandwich and watched me eat it, which was a struggle. Then she made me call my mom, which was also a struggle. I went home, took a nap, threw up, ate a bunch of ice cream, and watched Fraggle Rock with the Fearless One.
And that, my friends, is how I found out that I am one of the rare humans who get basilar migraines, which is a fancy name for migraines that come with a whole slew of debilitating symptoms.
Yay.
During my last year of college, I left the fast food business and accepted a job tutoring kids in a tourist-trap city half an hour from College City and an hour from Hometown. To reach my workplace, I had to drive through a twisty, snowstorm-ridden canyon, sometimes in the dark.
One day, I was scheduled to go to work right after my afternoon class. During my morning class, I came down with one of my lovely basilar migraines.
I happened to bring my journal to school that day. Here's what I wrote: Geez. I'm having a crazy dizzy spell. I get these sometimes, and it's scar
Migraines are not conducive to flawless spelling.
By that point, I had learned ways to help mitigate the symptoms. I took headache medicine, drank a lot of fluids, and ate a copious amount of food. The dizziness abated enough for me to drive safely. However, my head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside, trying to get out.
When I arrived at the picturesque, expensive building where my workplace was situated, I was informed that my first appointment had been canceled (that would happen sometimes, but I still got paid). I knew what I had to do! I stuffed Quits inside my already-bulging backpack and headed towards the picturesque, expensive Italian restaurant next door.
Like the town, the restaurant was a tourist trap. It was such a tourist trap that the prices were posted on a glass-encased parchment-y piece of paper displayed outside, like in European vacation spots and at Disneyland, but the restaurant was still relatively nice. It was the kind of place you would bring a business client whom you were hoping to mildly impress.
Mind you, I didn't make a habit of dressing nice for school. Even if I had, I was exhausted, I hadn't been home in about ten hours, and I felt terrible. I must have looked a sight. Yet I lugged my fat backpack into the relatively nice, picturesque, expensive restaurant where a few people were meeting with business clients they hoped to mildly impress, and I asked to be seated.
The waiter obliged. He treated me most civilly, though he could easily have chosen to disdain me. I sat heavily at the highly polished table and unceremoniously dumped my backpack on the seat opposite. Then I proceeded to spend almost all the money I was earning from my canceled tutored session on a Dr. Pepper and an order of focaccia.
I was expecting a small plate of focaccia. Instead I received an entire focaccia pizza. Eight pieces. Plus my frosty, delicious Dr. Pepper.
In the two hours before my next tutoring session, I ate all eight slices of focaccia and drank all the Dr. Pepper. I do not normally do such things. I couldn't do it now. I wouldn't advise trying it at home. But I stuck my head in one of the Chronicle of Prydain books and, using a slow and measured pace, I worked my way through the entire focaccia pizza and the entire soda.
That, my friends, is the kind of aplomb with which I handle my basilar migraines.
Migraines can be debilitating. I get them, too, but I don't have the basilar type. The descriptions of your low paying jobs make me wish your life could somehow be easier. We all have our struggles, but at least you've found a good way to cope that seems to work well for you.
ReplyDeleteCynthia Bowers @ Bay Area TMJ And Sleep
Oh hi! Thanks for your comment. Migraines are the worst, aren't they? I actually have a really great job right now, and the tutoring job described in the post was actually a very high-paying job. Also, when I worked in fast food, I could have made much more in each paycheck had I worked more. On average, I worked about seven hours a week during the school year. During the slow weeks, I would work three or four hours, which is when I would get a $60 paycheck. Also, had my school schedule been different, I wouldn't have had to work such weird hours. In short, I was more than fairly compensated for my time and skill level, and had I needed to earn more money I could have asked to be trained for management and gotten a salary and benefits. I didn't need those things, though, because I was living with my parents and going to school on full scholarship. I should have made that clear in the post. My life really was quite easy! Thanks for your concern, though.
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