Headache 10 out of 10. The worst pain I've ever experienced. I can't take any more Tylenol #4 tonight, nor any more regular strength Tylenol, as I've taken everything that's permitted, and I feel quite desperate. The pain is bad enough that it's causing nausea, but my gum graft situation means that I can't eat any of the things that usually help to calm my stomach (usually bread or tortilla chips). Despite the late hour, I'm going to drink the mocha I bought from Peet's this afternoon, in hopes that it might help with the headache, despite the fact that it will most likely keep me up much of the night. I'll try anything right now. Okay, no, not anything. I wouldn't go for illegal substances, for example. But I don't quite know what to do with myself. I can't even focus on coloring. I just keep looking up from the page and clutching my forehead and groaning. It feels so melodramatic to say that, but it HURTS.
I'm going to try plain jook to see if it can settle my stomach. It sounds disgusting, but maybe it will help.
Last night I was sure I was going to be up most (if not all) of the night with the intense headache that I wrote about here. I was feeling some despair, powerlessness in the face of pain.
Shannon was going to bed around his usual time, and he always sleeps better if we adhere to our usual cuddling ritual, so I got into bed with him, planning to get up when he fell asleep & spend the night down in the living room, hurting & trying to distract myself as best I could.
He took me in his arms, and he stroked his hand along my arm, and I stroked my hand along his shoulder, and we talked softly about nothing important. We touched each other's warm skin and breathed quietly together in the darkness.
And then I woke up to morning light coming through the windows.
My head was still hurting terribly—last night's headache wasn't gone—but I'd gotten 8 hours of sleep, 8 hours of escape from pain, 8 hours of respite, because Shannon held me until my emotional comfort was stronger than my physical pain.
If someone were ever to make my journal into a movie, it would be a sappy love story. Shannon saves me every day.
Back in June, my mom told me that I shouldn't tell her about my health issues anymore, just to let her know when "big stuff" like the cataract surgeries was happening; and I realized this morning that she and I have different definitions of "big stuff." Daily pain from which I have no escape, but which can be fought with loving comfort ... that's pretty big stuff in my book. I'm very lucky to have Shannon on my side.