When what to my wondering eyes should appear...

Migraines are cunning creatures.

One minute you're living your life in all it's ignorant glory, watching Cesar's seemingly effortless canine behavior modification, and the next you're suddenly aware that parts of the flat screen image have become like your car's blind spot, except you've lost parts of your field of vision directly in front of you, not over your shoulder, like some distorted digital image captured on your child's handheld game device, it's stylus churning a once recognizable picture into a blurred mass of colour. But there's no 'restore' button to press; no 'undo' feature to this experience.

I watched a portion of my world disappear again Saturday evening, awed by the sensations appearing somewhere between my reality and my consciousness. I've moved beyond the fear and panic of that very first episode a few years ago, when I wasn't sure what was happening and whether I was about to have a stroke or an aneurism or something worse. Was it visual? Neurological? Physical? A combination? Was I losing my eyesight? Would it be permanent or just a temporary inconvenience? Was it a result of my surroundings or something I'd ingested or been exposed to? A reaction? What?! Once I was able to quiet my racing mind and realize that while something was most definitely happening to me, I was in no immediate danger, I was able to deal with my new state in more concrete terms.

The tunnel vision was a treat, and I likely shouldn't have tried driving home, but hey, you live and learn, right?

As further portions of my surroundings dropped from my field of view this past weekend, replaced by a void of clarity, I watched and waited patiently, knowing full well what might come next; half expecting it, half dreading it, but always mindful to be present in the moment. No two occurrences are alike. Some last much longer than others; some pose very little discomfort during the aura phase; others affect me much more severely in terms of vision impairment; each one brings something new to the table.

Sometimes its simply a loss of vision in one small area, and it will clear with the passage of time, perhaps with a headache, perhaps not; maybe the light-sensitivity this time, or maybe I'll escape unscathed and be able to resume normal activities relatively quickly. But when the blurred areas of vision continue to bind together in ever tightening currents of jagged contrasts, I know I'm in for a wild ride. So I watch the magical, hallucinogenic effects of my brain appearing in my eyesight with interest and appreciation, surveying the zig-zag lines for new patterns and colours, trying to remember them for later, much later, when the pounding finally subsides, and the pain recedes to more tolerable levels.

Then I admit defeat and seek remedy for the impending events, taking solace in dark, quiet spaces, fatigued and drained without much apparent effort, to ride out the storm.

Morning may bring relief.

Or it may not.

Usually the new dawn brings a shallow, fragile, hollowness, and mental dullness. Tired eyes still sensitive; remnants of aching echoing throughout; time the only cure. Sunday brought small comfort; the lingering symptoms never far from the surface. Monday seemed more hopeful, and life was attempted with gusto, though I find myself still affected this evening as I write.

The appreciation and interest have waned considerably.