I hate it when I wake up with a migraine so intense, I lay in bed with a pillow over my head and whimper for a while before dragging myself into the (bright! too bright! TURN OFF THE SUN!) bathroom for my meds.
I hate it when I go back to sleep for a while, and when I wake up, my $&#^@! head still hurts.
I hate it when I force myself to get up and take a shower, and about halfway through my shower I realize there is no way I’m leaving the house.
I hate it when I’m trying to sleep with wet hair and my pillow’s all soggy.
I hate it when I miss church.
I hate it when I sleep all morning and still feel awful when I try to get up, later.
I hate it when I have to admit to my ex that I’m unwell, and ask him to please bring the kids back rather than forcing me to get in a car and try to drive like this.
I hate it when my daughter gets on the phone and sounds really pitiful and says “My head hurts, too, Mama. Real bad.”
I hate it when I ask my ex if he’s taken her temperature or given her any medicine, and he says they’re out right now.
I hate it that I have to suggest that maybe he should consider NOT BEING OUT because it appears that his child isn’t feeling well.
I hate it when I’m right, sometimes.
I hate it when the ex calls back later to report that Chickadee has barfed all over his couch and is running a temperature of 102.
I hate it when worry for my child removes any and all evil joy I may otherwise feel about there being vomit on the ex’s couch.
I hate it when I feel so unwell, myself, that I strike a bargain with the ex for him to keep the kids overnight and we’ll work out the exchange tomorrow.
I hate it when I want to go to sleep, but I have so much due for work tomorrow that it seems like a better idea to pop some tylenol, sit in the dark with my laptop, and try to focus on the swimming, flashing words on the screen.
I hate it when I remember that Chickadee said her head hurt “real bad” at the same time I’m wondering why my migraine medicine has refused to work today.
I hate it when I take my temperature and then would, you know, slap my forehead, if I didn’t think it would cause my head to shatter into a bazillion little pieces.
God, I just hate it when that happens.