It starts with a blinding sucker punch to my right temple. Now my head is a giant grape in a vise, ready to split open and ooze its juices down my neck. The pressure increases; the nausea erupts from my gut. Time becomes thick with throbbing and worry. I try to escape its grasp, but the struggle makes it worse. Sometimes medicine works—but not today. 

I crawl into bed, defeated, yet sleep evades me. The pain is so extreme it hurts to lie down. Then it hurts to sit up. I walk in circles trying to outpace the headache. I lean against the wall with tears about to spill over the shelves of my eyes, willing myself not to cry. Pain multiplies when you cry

Time passes—sometimes hours, occasionally days—but eventually the smog of misery begins to dissipate, and I can see again. I lie back down to recover with my dogs who are oblivious to my condition. Tomorrow I will feel sore from the fierce workout. 

Released from my painful prison sentence, I notice a snowy layer of dust blanketing my bedside table. Giddy with relief, I ready myself to start over again. At no point do I think to wipe off the table. Time on either side of a migraine is too valuable to spend housekeeping.