Soon, a visit to a specialist clinic proves that Pünktchen’s dad was wrong: migraines do exist. Chatting to my mum, she recalls her mother having similar headaches when she was younger, although no one ever took her seriously. Google’-luckily for us the Internet is now a ‘thing’-where an intensive search for ‘one-sided headache’ and ‘light sensitivity’ throws up thousands of promising hits. And with that I am released, this time feeling even more hopeless.īut I keep looking for answers. Her advice? To devote more resources and time to these subjects. She probes further: ‘What are your weakest subjects?’ ‘Geography and French, B+ and B,’ I explain. Excluding the headaches, I’m okay.’ The word ‘school’ is clearly a trigger, because after making some notes she asks if I am having problems at school. Plus, I have absolutely no control over them, which makes it even worse. I’m missing out on school work and seeing my friends and they come at the most inconvenient times. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m pretty unhappy when I have these terrible headaches. ‘Do you feel unhappy?’ The question comes from the woman on the other side of a massive wooden desk and with an expression that’s supposed to convey understanding, empathy, concern and kindness all at once. Tests now complete, the doctors can find nothing obvious physically to cause the headaches, so the logical next step is to send me to a psychotherapist. And it’s more good news as a tumor is firmly ruled out. No gel this time, just some over-sized magnet-safe pyjamas and a rather noisy tunnel. But the neurologist says it’s all normal. As I watch the squiggly lines appear on the paper spewing out of the EEG machine, I grow increasingly concerned about what they’re going to tell us. Some electrodes are glued to my scalp to monitor electrical charges in my brain for any irregularities. The headaches’ increasing severity and one-sided nature certainly make a tumor a feasible explanation, if also a scary one. ‘Have you had an EEG yet? What about an MRI scan?’ asks my local GP. For the last 2 years, my dad has been very dismissive of my ‘whining’ about a ‘mere’ headache, but my mum decides it’s time to take it seriously. My parents find me crying on the bath mat. Without the prospect of rescue, I break down. Now desperate for pain relief, I crawl to the bathroom, where I manage to pull myself up using the sink, only to find the pills are out of reach. Gathering all my strength, I attempt to get out of bed, but with every move, what feels like waves of burning liquid swirl through the right side of my skull. The headache has returned, and the pain is worse than ever. What is wrong with me? Stumbling through the classroom door, guided by my confused teacher, all I can think about is when this feeling might end.Ī few months later, back in my parent’s house in Germany, I wake up in the early hours, sweating. But the strongest sensation is one of sudden, overwhelming fatigue. My brain can’t function, the neon light above is far too bright and my muscles are like jelly. My teacher is examining my pale face: ‘Elle, are you ok? What’s wrong?’ Am I okay? I don’t think so. Only 2 weeks later I feel weak and sick again, but this time I’m aware enough to know my symptoms are not being caused by my allergies. There’s no one around to ask, so I just decide it must be allergies. I feel very unwell, but in a way that feels unfamiliar. Texas is a dry, dusty place, so maybe this is an exaggerated form of hay fever? I try to get up to take some antihistamines, but movement makes the pain much worse so I opt for painkillers from my nightstand instead. I’m in Fort Worth, Texas, on a 6-month school exchange. When Anton then asks him what a migraine is, his response is clear: ‘Migraines?! Migraines are headaches that don’t exist.’ And for the following decade that was what we believed.įast forward a few years and I’m woken up in the early hours by a throbbing pain that radiates along the right side of my head, piercing my eyes and cheekbones. At one point, the protagonist, Anton, asks his friend Pünktchen’s dad what’s wrong with her mum-a thin, middle-class, middle-aged housewife who spends most of the time in bed with her eyes covered. Like little sponges we soak up the morals and details of the story, as we watch the German children’s movie for what must be the tenth time. Though it’s normally a special treat reserved for rainy Sunday afternoons, my parents have given in to our demands to watch Pünktchen und Anton yet again. The Internet isn’t a ‘thing’ yet, so I’m sitting on the couch in our living room with some kindergarten friends, clutching a pillow in excitement and glued to the television.
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