To build a migraine, you need at least three bodily deficiencies, like sleep deprivation, dehydration and stress. Or loud noises, criminally dry air and hunger. First sparked, the migraine seems a little thing. A micro-problem.
But as it feeds, it grows. The migraine scurries on tripod gait into your throbbing, knotted forehead. A nest of fire ants, the migraine seizes your veins, invades your eye sockets, fills your throat with swirling nausea.
Lest it consume your very sanity, you must exterminate it. Through cold packs and Excedrin, you attempt to smother it. You put out lights and dim sounds. Forced into yourself, you can hear only your own pulsing blood. You pray like a breath for the pain to crawl away.
Your son, a sage at four, plays quietly by your fainting couch. He builds a DUPLO zoo. A sympathetic menagerie of animal faces turned towards you, for the moment you at last open lucid eyes.