Chicory blue, depending on the light, shades toward gray or lavender. Unlike forget-me-nots, which when they pop up at the beginning of spring just seem so damn cheerful with their little golden eyes, I interpret chicory as having more substance. Someone who was struggling with grief, for example, might see in its center a bit of ash. It grows along roads, rooting itself in gritty bits of earth. It blooms from early July until the first frost, and it survives despite blazing heat or the worst of the summer storms. Its beauty, however, lies both in its tenaciousness and its sublime color. I never pick chicory; I have seen it every day this summer as I have walked and walked these hills.  Like most wildflowers, it dies in a vase of water within hours of being pulled from the earth. Some things are meant to stay undisturbed.

I'm not sure what's going on. It's July 10; chicory should be lining the roads, reaching out to me as I sit in the car, my head against the window, finding my way back home after being in the hospital. 

I have to learn a new life. Again. 

Turns out, I'm suffering from several different varieties of headache, each having their own etiologies, and their own treatments, and it's going to be up to me to figure out what kind of headache I have and then treating it appropriately. 

 ****

I came to this area many years ago now, (1993), a grad student at Cornell, a two-year old child with me, a husband who had no idea where he was going to find work, and we set out to make this place the temporary home that it would be while I was a grad student.

Sixteen years later, that two-year old just graduated high school, her 12-year old sister only a few years behind, and this place has some sense of home about it--more from default rather than active choosing.

And, of course, there's Rob.

 ****

And yet, I do love it here. Wildflowers grow like weeds (mind the pun) along the road: harebells, vetch, wild peas, hemlock, cow parsnip, but ....no chicory...

except for an occasional patch, and I mean a patch that I almost think  of as a migraine aura because it's so quick and so quickly gone in the car that maybe I didn't see it.

****

So, the oxycodone is gone, too. Depending on what kind of headache I think I have (migraine or non-migraine), I either have to start with cool packs and coffee or cool packs and chamomile tea and work my way up to taking Aleve. I have to chart where the headache is: cheekbones? hairline? eye? temples? forehead? 

Oh? And guess the headache incorrectly and drink caffeine for a migraine?  That'll make you sorry.

****

It's funny, because part of me is coming back. The drugged-out avoid-pain-at-all-costs person has been replaced by a strung-out, fragile, trying-to-be-patient-with-myself person whose boyfriend bought her a sunhat today to avoid any chance of glare setting off a headache. 

Who has not eaten any food with more than three ingredients because I have to find the source of the headache. 

Who is afraid to drink alcohol for fear of a headache. Who is, truth be told, afraid to have an orgasm for fear of a migraine. What do I take when pain wants to get the better of me now? 

I'm thinking this is the look I'll be sporting until I start to feel better:

****

Last night, I couldn't sleep because of the kicks. Part of narcotic withdrawal involves involuntary muscle movements (hence "kicking" the habit). I have drugs to control the kicks, which I took, but they didn't work at the dosage they were supposed to, so I took more. Jesus, some habits are just so frickin' hard to break. 

When the day is done
And the world is sleeping
And the moon is on its way to rise
When your friends are gone
You thought were so worth keeping
You feel you don't belong
And you don't know why

And everytime you hear the rolling thunder
You turn around before the lightening strikes
And does it ever make you stop and wonder
If all your good times pass you by 

(Sheryl Crow, Gone is Gone)

****

Rob is making me a simple pizza. I'm not to move off the couch. We ran some not-so-complex errands today, and truthfully, it took the piss right out of me. 

But we drove a lot--through the hills, along farm roads, down the crazy hill with all sorts of wildflowers clinging to its rock face. A hill I could reach my hand out my window and pluck something off. 

But wildflowers are not to be plucked. They die. 

****

If I don't see some chicory by Monday, I'll call the Cornell Horticulture School and ask them what the fuck they did with my favorite flowers this year? So many invasive species out there now, and I wonder if the chicory fell victim? 

I know how that feels. You let something into your system that feels good and takes away your pain and the next thing you know, it's causing your headaches in order to get you to take more. Good that you're smart enough to know that, and to get yourself into the hospital to avoid dying. 

But goddamnit. I miss the chicory. I can give up pain relief, but I cannot give up that blue.

It has been my comfort many a summer, and I need it.