I turn 39 on the 28th. For the first time in my life, I’m not excited about my birthday. It’s not the typical existential dread of getting older. I like the wisdom that has come with age and am OK knowing that the remaining years in my life are dwindling. The distress comes from knowing that migraine will have an outsize role in determining how I spend those years.
I have been housebound for nearly two months. Confined to the couch, I have to wonder: Will I have another six months of this then get back on track with my dreams? Or will I spend another decade trying fruitless treatments while science catches up with my body?
Thinking of everything I’ve lost to chronic migraine—friends, work, school, hobbies, living in Seattle…—brings me to tears. But only one loss is a fresh bleeding wound whenever I think of it. Time. Time is the only thing I can never regain, repair, or replace. Approaching my birthday prone on the couch, I ask: How much more time will I lose to migraine?
There is so much I want to do with my life. Writing to do, family to spend time with, friends to see and make, countries to travel to, bands to dance to. I don’t waste any minute of my time when I feel good (or even halfway decent). On those days, I go nonstop and crawl into bed at night satisfied and happy that I’m tired from exertion, not migraine. But those hours don’t add up to enough for me reach my goals.
In January, I finally believed that the improvement I experienced in 2014 was real and lasting. I finally believed that I had enough energy and cognitive ability to bring the book I have in mind to fruition. In March, that belief was shattered. I know the book will happen, but not until migraine stops absorbing all my physical and mental energy. Will that be next year? Five years from now? 20? I have work to do. When will I get to do it?
The 17-year-old main character in the novel I’m reading is trying to discern the meaning of a poem her grandfather shared with her before his death. It’s a future society and the poem is illicit, so Google is of no help. Over and over, she puzzles through these lines:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
It’s a Dylan Thomas poem that’s probably familiar to you. It was to me, but the words hit me harder than they ever have before. As the main character begins to understand what the poem means to her, I considered what it means in my life.
My 30s are nearly over and I don’t know how much more time I’ll lose to migraine. Now matter the number, the one certainty is that I will spend that time raging against the dying of the light. I’m still breathing, therefore I’m still trying to get better. I will not go gently. I cannot. I love life too much to give up.