My first migraine hit me like a Mac truck. I was at Pier One with my dad, absolutely fascinated with the hollowed out Russian dolls that fit neatly inside one another from the tiniest to one that must have been larger than my small head. When it happened, I dropped them. I’m fairly certain the first few layers of smiling Russian ladies came open. My eyes closed involuntarily, and the shock of pain was a combination of both my head hitting the hard laminate floor and the lightning bolt shooting through my head. I was only eight.

My migraines have always been bad. I’ve tracked everything I’ve come in contact with to try to find my triggers. I watch out for that time of the month, so I know when the hormonal shifts will trigger a new one. I’ve tried preventative meds, abortive meds, herbs, heat and cold and abstaining from chocolate, alcohol and caffeine. I’ve tried everything almost. I’ve researched botox, acupuncture, lobotomies, electroshock therapy and hemispherectomies.

When I was younger, I couldn’t control my reactions to them. I would scream and cry. I would make a valiant effort to claw out my eyes, only to have my arms held back and be quickly deposited into a steaming hot shower in the pitch dark. They would sometimes come twice a month and sometimes twice a day. At times they would last no longer than 20 minutes and other times, I have gone weeks in seemingly bottomless pain. For me, I found that they are caused by stress and a tannin allergy. Tannin is easy enough to avoid – no strong teas, no red wine, no dark pigment in food. Stress, on the other hand, has always been an unavoidable fact of life.

A little over three years ago, I was nearing the end of my dramatic and stress-inducing divorce, going into a weekend where I would be managing a major event for work, at the beginning stages of the quite humbling experience of potty training my just-turned one year old, I was at the tail end of living with my semi-psychotic parents and I was in the process of trying to get my son and I into a house of our own. I was kneeling just outside my parent’s bathroom, encouraging my son on his tiny potty chair, when suddenly the right side of my head felt a small explosion reverberate, almost immediately causing me to lose consciousness.

I came to with my son looking terrified and my mother screaming at me. It took me longer than it should have to figure out where I was and who these people were. I tried to lift myself off the floor, but I found that my left arm was not moving. I tried to swing my legs around under me, but again – my left leg wasn’t cooperating. I opened my mouth and nothing would come out. My mom looked like she was using sentences, but I was having trouble figuring out what she was saying. I grabbed my son with my right arm and held on to him tightly, hugging me as through that would somehow make all this go away.

My dad got me in the car and drove to the local emergency room. By the time we got into the parking lot, I was able to move my left side again, but it was extremely weak. My whole body felt tired and weak as well. I could understand what he was saying and could speak some, but it came out in stuttering half-sentences. I did though manage to convince him to take me back home. I had to work the next day, and I thought I just needed some sleep.

Back at home, I was sitting in the living room on a recliner, discussing haltingly the child care arrangements for the next day when it happened again. It had only been a couple hours from the first one. When I came to, my parents had already called an ambulance. I was frustrated, but was again unable to speak. I felt pathetic and sheepish by the time six or seven paramedics came tromping through the house to see me. I tried to insist that I was ok by writing it out and desperately trying to speak in sputtering, short sentences. They stood around looking uncomfortable for a minute and ask my parents about what had been going on recently. One did a quick test to see if I could squeeze the same with both hands. He looked horrified at the disparity and asked how old I was. I had just turned twenty-five. They conferenced for only a few minutes before saying, “Women are so fragile, and the body can do some strange things when under stress. Just go get checked out by a doctor in the next couple days, but I’m sure you’re fine. It’s just that you’re highly emotional.”  I was frustrated, but agreed to go to the doctor the next morning before heading to work.

Bright and early, I got in to see a doctor the next morning. He quickly looked over my charts. By that time, I was able to speak with only occasional stutters, but I was still having some trouble with my left side.  He ask me a serious of rapid fire questions. Has this happened before? No. Did I have migraines? Yes. Was I on birth control? No. Had I taken any medications in the last couple days? Yes, Imitrex for what felt like a migraine coming on.

He quickly deduced that it was nothing serious. Just a form of a migraine that I hadn’t experienced before. Nothing to be worried about. His wife had a similar one when she was pregnant with their eighth or ninth child. The speech problems and left-side issues were nothing more than an aura for the migraine. It most likely would never happen again.

It was only twenty minutes after I left his office that it did indeed happen again. This time, I didn’t wake up until I was in the ER, surrounded by doctors. Then, it happened again and again and again. And, I wasn’t getting any functioning back, only losing more and more. I could no longer understand what anyone was saying. After test upon test, being pumped full of pain medication, anti-convulsive medication, anti-anxiety medications as well as a host of other things, I slept.

I woke up a couple days later in a reasonably nice hospital room. I was hooked up to an assortment of machines and had a number of different colored plastic bands on my wrists. The nurses came in, and I tried to ask her what was going on, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I’m not even sure my mouth opened. I did manage to understand what she was telling me. They did not have a neurologist on staff at the small hospital. The doctor on call would be there later to tell me what was going on.

I had a stroke. Or, strokes, depending on who you talk to. There was no permanent damage seen on any of the scans and tests, but in was also clearly told that their machines weren’t ideal. I would most likely recover, or I would have more strokes. One nurse, with the best of intentions, told me that there was a high likelihood of a recurrence and they would get worse. So, I could plan for the future better knowing what was going to happen. In my rattled state I began to consider that I was going to die. I was strangely comforted to know how I would most likely die though.

My dad visited with my son once during the time I was in the hospital. My son managed to fall off the sofa and get a bump on his head, which seemed reason enough for my dad and son not to visit again. My mom swooped in once also, but with a specific mission. She cornered the on-call doctor and insisted that my strokes were caused by my drinking a SlimFast a week before the incidents. I was relieved to have the peace and quiet of the hospital room to myself after that.

I tried to call my ex mother in law to see if she could move her visitation time with my son around due to the circumstances. I was told matter of factly that I could not possibly be the hospital, I was exaggerating the circumstances and I was being selfish. And, no – she would just cancel all visitation for the month. I felt completely helpless. How was I supposed to take care of my son from a hospital bed. And, wasn’t I supposed to be at work?

A week or so later, a neurologist finally came in. It was a unique kind of migraine. Some of the people had been correct. Hemiplegic migraines, which cause neurological deficits from the migraine. I had been losing consciousness from the pain. Oh, and the Imitrex – if you take it for a hemiplegic migraine, it will cause stroke(s).  Lovely. And the cause, stress yet again reared it’s ugly. “If you get too stressed out, you will bring on another one, and it can cause another stroke since you’ve already had at least one. It is time to re-evaluate your lifestyle.” Right… de-stress? Me? It seemed like the most monumental task ever set for me. I, the queen of type A personalities, was supposed to unwind.

The day I got out of the hospital, I immediately drove over to sign the lease at my new house. Then, I went to work. The next two weeks were spent in and out of court to wrap up my divorce, moving and trying to furnish my new house, and working non-stop.  Not to mention, Junior League events, working on a new book, managing an artist, and some random volunteer work I was committed to. So, of course, it happened again and again and again. My young son was taught to speed dial 911 and my parents when I would lose consciousness. My recovery was not going well. I thought of it as occupational therapy, by throwing myself fully back into the fray.

Almost a month and a half later, I finally found my neurologist. She was wonderful and straightforward. I was to take a couple weeks off, starting that day, or I was going to die sooner rather than later. I walked into my office crying and told my boss. She pushed me out the door, and I went home to putter, relax and recover. Those were truly the best two weeks ever. I sat in my living room and read books I hadn’t picked up in years. I baked cupcakes and gardened. I would sit and relax and not think of anything. Slowly, my speech got remarkably better. I no longer was dragging my left foot, and my left arm was cooperating.

It’s been quite awhile since I’ve have one of those migraines, and I haven’t had a stroke since. I de-stressed and de-cluttered. I became happy. When I do get stressed out, which happens – especially lately, I start to stutter a little and have trouble getting sentences out. And, still my left hand is a little slower at typing and isn’t as strong as my right, but it is remarkably better.

Unfortunately, it’s hereditary.  My father had them and strokes accompanying them for years and was undiagnosed. By all accounts and appearances, my paternal grandmother had them as well. There is a 50/50 chance my son will have them. And, considering that it looks like my husband seems to have it on his side as well, our newest son will most likely be afflicted as well. Some are not as bad as mine, and some are worse.  We’ll just have to see what happens.