The Headache
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
That was the sound of a pair of clippers buzzing off some, but not all of my hair (this distinction is important). I was 16-years-old and, while I was rebellious in some ways, going semi-Demi Moore/G.I. Jane was not my intention.
Instead, I was in the hospital being prepped for brain surgery.
I had a craniotomy in 2007 after having suffered from a constant headache for a full two years. Medications, Botox, nerve blocks, acupuncture, massage, biofeedback, talk therapy, and more had all failed me, and my doctors firmly believed that brain surgery would do the trick. The theory was that I had increased intracranial pressure and that, once relieved, my pain would disappear.
Fortunately, you can test intracranial pressure. With lumbar punctures and MRIs, you can pretty much know for certain whether a person’s brain pressure is too high, too low, or just right. Every test came back “mostly normal,” but doctors assumed this to be a fluke. They presented brain surgery as the only option for me being able to live pain-free.
After the surgery and recovery period, I was left with a half-shaven head. And The Headache decided to stick around too.
The surgery was unsuccessful; and while I patiently waited for my hair to grow back, I continued to go to doctors, specialists, naturalists — anyone and everyone who might help. Bouncing around from doctor to doctor felt normal to me: I was in pain. Doctors treated pain. Going to doctors will get rid of my pain.
But the process wasn’t that simple. In 2017, 10 years after my unnecessary (and arguably irresponsible) brain surgery, and 12 years from when The Headache began, I’m still in pain. It’s incredibly challenging trying to describe to people and medical professionals alike that this headache is singular.
I have not had a single pain-free day in 12 years.
I have been in pain for half of my life.
Despite the seemingly constant doctor appointments and drug trials that left me feeling mostly awful, I tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy in my life. My high school teachers knew that the surgery had happened. I didn’t miss any school because we did it over a break, but I had to get a doctor’s note that permitted me to wear a hat inside the classroom while my hair grew back in since it was “against the rules” to wear hats at school. Most of my friends assumed that the surgery had “fixed” whatever problem I had, so I learned to just not talk about it very much.
I have always been very academically driven, so I stayed on top of my grades and graduated at the top of my class even though I spent many days catching up on work from my bed. Not only was it exhausting to be maintaining a rigorous academic schedule with The Headache, but it was becoming exhausting keeping up the ruse that I was F-I-N-E. Really, I was just putting on what has become the performance of my lifetime.
I was accepted into some really great colleges, and ultimately chose to go to a small liberal arts school that was close to home and to my best neurologist. It was far enough away that I could live on campus and attempt to create an “authentic” college experience, but close enough that I could always go home to see my family or my doctors.
I was excited for college because no one would have to know that I had this weird medical history. Better yet, I wouldn’t have to try to convince people that “yes, being in pain constantly is a thing and by golly, I sure am able to still go to school!” As everyone else was unpacking their shower caddies and perfectly coordinated twin-XL bedding, I was looking forward to not having to unpack the baggage that came along with explaining The Headache.
It felt like my acting was improving with every new person and situation I encountered in college. The Headache was no match for my stubbornness dedication to acting the part.
I would go to class, eat dinner in the Commons with friends, do research and write papers in the library, and do it all over again the next day. It was routine and consistent — except that The Headache was relentless, and it was starting to take its toll.
Soon, I began to isolate myself. I had committed to doing the best I could, given my pain, and had learned to count my spoons. But I was floundering. I started to develop severe anxiety and depression because no matter how good my acting chops were, it was becoming clear to me that The Headache may be something that I will always have to live with.
I opened up to certain people during my college career — the professors and advisors I was closest to and, of course, my dearest friends. Being able to have moments of reprieve from my performance art piece of a life was cathartic, and I will always be grateful for how receptive each one of those people was when I described The Headache to them.
When I graduated with honors in the spring, I remember waking up in the morning, putting on a nice dress, slipping into the graduation robe, and looking in the mirror as I attempted to get the mortarboard to adhere to my head. The craniotomy had left a canyon of scarring along the right side of my head, and I flinched as I tried to secure the cap to my head with bobby pins.
I have now been out of college for three years, and have since moved across the country. If you had told me 12 years ago that I would bring The Headache to New York City, maintain a full-time job, and find joy in hobbies like writing and improv comedy, I would have laughed in your face.
At the time, it was unfathomable that I would accomplish anything of merit with The Headache constantly impacting my life. But as I started to accomplish those milestones — high school graduation, college graduation, first job, a move across the country — I realized that The Headache was only one part of me; a part of a whole that was capable of so much and stubborn enough to both fight and cry through the pain while defining my own path in life.
While no pain pill has ever come close to relieving me of The Headache, I have learned to love and protect myself, know when to challenge myself, and understand my limits. I think a lot of people would benefit from a pill that resulted in that kind of introspection and self-awareness.
12 years later, there seems to be no end to The Headache. But I don’t let it defeat me. I won’t let it defeat me.
