The headache and nausea strike as expected, though less severe than feared. Maybe the alcohol is cushioning my sore, overworked synapses? Come to think of it, have I ever had a migraine while drunk before?
I close the curtains and sit in the darkened lounge for a while, dozing.
Then I rouse myself, potter around in a vague sort of way. Dinner is a big pot of tea, half a packet of stale Oreos and another couple of paracetamol just in case. Hang on in there, kidneys: you can cope.
As dusk falls softly on the autumn landscape and the lowing of my neighbour’s cattle drifts across the paddocks, I turn in for the night.
If I dream, I have no recollection of it. I sleep right through to first light.
Monday dawns soft and misty, the sort of autumn day I love. It reminds me of youth and home, the benign Essex countryside.
I’m clear-headed and famished, having gone to bed on a near-empty stomach. While the magpies carol hopefully outside the window, I set about making myself a massive, opulent breakfast.
The speaker in the kitchen plays softly, streaming 3RRR. Floaty, alternative pop; intellectual burble from the DJs and studio guest.
What I told Jeannie about ‘nothing in particular’ triggering the migraines isn’t strictly true. Actually it’s utter bullshit. She can be slow on the uptake and it’s complicated, so I put it in the too-hard basket.
I’ve given a lot of thought to the triggers. I’ve skimmed medical websites and books, compared notes with famous migraineurs and migraineuses like Oliver Sacks, Lewis Carroll and Loretta Lynn.
My not-very-useful conclusion: any strong sensory stimulus has the potential to set me off. It could be the strobe effect of driving along an avenue of poplars when the sun is low in the sky; the moiré dazzle of a newsreader’s striped shirt; the exquisite sharpness of an orange; the long, slow richness of dark chocolate; the tingle of woodsmoke in the sinuses.
Certain places at certain times. It doesn’t do to hang around too much in the old dairy at dusk, or down by the dam in the still afternoon of a hot summer’s day. Is it just the particular quality of the light?
During an attack, I feel I’m entering a different state of being, where all the depth is taken out of the world. Sight, hearing, smell, touch – all become shallow.
An attack may be purely sensory in its triggers, but it carries a particular emotional charge. The jagged lines of the aura seem to fizz and crackle with malice.
I dragged myself to the doc in the hope of getting answers. All I got was sympathy and a prescription for meds that didn’t work. I pressed for a referral to a Melbourne neurologist. She called me in for an initial consultation; prescribed another triptan as ineffectual as the first; sent me for an MRI and a bunch of other tests, none of which revealed anything useful; charged me a small fortune for a diagnosis along the lines: ‘Shit happens.’
‘There’s nothing physiological, as far as we can tell. Probably a genetic component. It’s just one of those things that some people have to put up with, I’m afraid, Mr Conway. The medications are excellent, compared to what we had before, but they don’t work for everyone. Take note of your typical triggers and avoid them as far as possible. Keep a migraine diary. If it gets more acute, come and see me again.’
It got more acute. We tried a nasal spray instead of the pills. Then an older class of drug that made me violently sick.
After that, I gave up.
There is one correlating factor I preferred not to mention to a brisk, not overly sympathetic specialist. The return of my migraines followed the sudden death of my wife, Emma.
Yet the incidence hasn’t lessened with the passing years, as the keen edge of my grief has dulled. On the contrary: it’s grown into a maddening obstacle to daily life.
Am I punishing myself for letting go?
I’m sitting in the courtyard garden, still in my cosy flannel jimjams, thick winter dressing gown and fluffy sheepskin moccasins, pondering these matters and filling out my diary for yesterday’s episode over breakfast.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, there’s the insistent sound of a motor. As it gets closer and louder, I realise it’s not the bass chug of neighbour Tony’s tractor laying out hay for his ‘girls’.
It’s a car, coming down my drive.
A car. Mercy. Come to pick me up.
To collect my car. My car which is still in Camperdown and will get a ticket if we’re not there soon after nine.
Unbelievable that I’ve forgotten all this. Clear-headed? Clearly not.
I scurry to the bedroom and tug on some clothes. I open the door just as she raises her hand to ring the bell a third time.
‘Ah, there you are! I was worried you were still asleep.’
‘No, no.’
‘Well, come along then.’
I think of my big brekkie treat. I’m not going to abandon it without a tussle.
‘I’m just, ah, having breakfast. Sorry, lost track of the time. Can you come in?’
She raises her eyebrows, but after a moment, nods.
‘Sure. I wouldn’t want to deprive a hungry man of vital sustenance.’ Her tone is flat. I can’t tell whether she’s seriously pissed off, or fine with it.
‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?’
‘We haven’t got long, but I’ll have a cup of tea.’ She pauses. ‘Tell you what, just point me at the kettle and the teabags and I’ll get it myself. Go and eat your breakfast.’
People don’t do that. Not the first time in a stranger’s house. But as I’m rapidly learning, Mercy isn’t people.
Steaming mug in hand, she joins me in the courtyard while I tuck in. It’s a bit embarrassing, eating in front of her, but better than any alternative I can think of right now.
‘That looks healthy.’ She nods at the bowl of porridge stacked high with fresh fruit and a big dollop of yoghurt.
‘Couldn’t face dinner last night. Thought I’d better have something proper.’
‘Good for you! This is the loveliest place for breakfast, too.’
She’s right. The courtyard is pretty, in an unkempt sort of way. Enclosed on three sides by the farmstead’s three single-storey buildings, it’s a sheltered spot. The wide, U-shaped verandah provides a choice of shade and sunlight all day long.
The mist is lifting. Across the fence, on the open side of the U, there’s a broad sweep of farmland. In the distance, rounded peaks emerge from the flat landscape: Noorat, Leura, Porndon. Dormant volcanoes, all three of them.
‘How’s the head?’
‘Fine, thanks. Slept it off. Good as new.’
‘I’m glad.’ She glances at her phone as I gulp down my last mouthful. ‘We’d better be making tracks, you know.’
She’s wearing smart clothes: dark and professional, the sort a solicitor or real estate agent would wear. Probably I’m making her late for work.
I tend to forget that other people have fixed routines. It’s a selfish trait, I know.
As we head through the house, haste doesn’t stop her peering into the rooms on both sides of the corridor.
‘I have questions, Benjamin!’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘About this place. But we can save the grand tour for another occasion.’
That’s one way of inviting yourself back, I guess. But fair enough: she’s going to a lot of trouble on my account, so I’m obligated.
‘Sure. Thanks so much for this, Mercy. I really appreciate it.’
‘Not a problem. All set? Got your car key? Good. In you hop!’
Like everyone else, she ignores the signs pleading ‘DUST SLOW DOWN’. We rattle up the drive at a fair clip, followed by great billows of red.
Under the circumstances, I can hardly complain.
Next week in Blind Spot:
Chapter 4: Crossing the Line
The trip to Camperdown turns out to be a wild ride.
Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.
Interesting, how Ben and Mercy are connecting with each other. I am loving this Steve.👏👏