So a month or so ago I went to the neurologist about the 30 Year Migraine.  And they gave me medicine.  And I was reluctant to take it, because that's the kind of girl I am.

But? I'm better.
Not 100%.  But close to 90.  I'd say 85-88%.  That's like a B+.  My life has changed so dramatically that tears come to my eyes a few times a week.  Well, they would if one of the side effects of the medication wasn't; patient may be reduced to a dried out sponge.

Turns out I have an Angry Brain Stem. 
It's full of tigers and horses wearing Evel Knievel onesies riding their motorcycles through rings of fire.
They've been reduced to kittens and ponies sliding down rainbows and landing on stormclouds.  That's not so bad.

Then I have these misfiring nerves in the back of my neck that shoot lightning bolts to the top of my head and then those fire laser beams to my eyeballs.  Quick fix is a needleful of some sort of ____caine and ____caine (I forget the prefixes) mix into the base of my skull and the back of my eyehole ridge under my brow.  Gross, but effective. 

I'm a whole new person.  So much more effective than the girl I was before.

There are some drawbacks.  This sounds so terrible, and I'm even embarrassed to admit it, but the weird visions and hallucinations and thoughts I'd have when I had a migraine?  I miss those.  They were so outlandish and bizarre and part of me.  I'm assuming that not too many of you got to experience those things and no, I will not tell you about them because they are not really fit for human consumption, but if you've ever been in really bad physical and/or mental pain, you know what I'm talking about.

There are side effects to the medication.  Some are actually enjoyable.  Tingling in the hands and feet.  This isn't so bad, because it numbs the arthritis.  It makes morning a bit more bearable.  Some are not.  I have the Jimmy Legs.  Restless Leg Syndrome.  This makes it worse.  I might accidentally kick you.

This medication is stealing my words.  I knew this might happen.  I knew it probably would happen.  You've probably noticed it has happened.  That's why you got two posts in a row linking to my other blog.

If  you know me in real life, you may notice I'm speaking much slower these days.  I have to.  It takes me a minute to find the right word.
It's not a stutter, exactly.  But sometimes I may stumble.  Bear with me.  This should pass.
It's like speaking to someone who is not quite elderly, but no longer young.

I'll remember your name, but not the name of that thing I need to write my number down for you.  That thing next to you.  Can you grab me the...  purple... next to the book? 
Thank you.

The wrong word comes.
Primal words come.
Oh boy.  This is the funny part.
Speaking and typing, it doesn't matter.  It's all the same.  I type as much as I speak these days, it seems to flow the same way.

It's been snowing a lot here.
Snow?  In my new vocabulary?  Is snot.
Fall?  Fart.
Despite the snotfart, I managed to get to work on time.
The what?  Do we need to speak like that around the water cooler?  I hope you are wearing a pad for easy cleanup.

Better?  Butt hair.
I've been feeling butt hair.

Normal?  Not male.
That new guy over there seems not male.

Book? Boob
Poor?  Poop
Shirt?  Shit
Fork?  Fuck
Spoon? Poons
Puppy?  Pussy
And on it goes.  And those, my friends, are the clean ones.
I'm a seventh grade boy.

I've warned my closest co-workers and my boss.  I had too.

Another side effect is visual disturbances.  Computer screens are killing me.  So, I'm reading books.  Because my words are gone, I've decided to let them go for awhile and enjoy the words of others. 

I'm reading (and re-reading) the complete works of John Irving, in chronological order.  I've always loved John.  I think I can call him John.  I've always thought, and as Ruth noticed too so I feel justified in saying this aloud, we are sort of made out of the same stuff and he makes me feel more normal.  Not to say we are equals in the field by any means, but I think that he might be loosely held together with twine and faux wood paneled station wagon doors and his holes might be plugged with broken bottles and the drafts might be kept out with rubber doormats and sealing wax too.