Generational Bequests

I heard this week that, apparently, a new generation of our line may be displaying the tendency toward those headaches I have blogged about briefly in the past, which plague my brother and me both so perniciously. A more heartbreaking inheritance would be unpleasant to even contemplate.

As I type, I am being reminded of The Joy What Be's Spring, and its attendant headaches. I've enjoyed already the ER doc's suggested dosage of four Advil, and it's doing nothing for me. And about three hours left to go before I can begin considering anything further.

There are times, particularly with headaches at this time of the day, when a good meal helps - or when, my (non-)snacking habits being what they are, I get a brain-pain thanks partially to low blood sugar. This is not one of those times.

No, this is one of those times when all it takes is a peek out the window - storm a'comin' - to see, literally *visibly* my cause. And it's a pity, because I quite like storms, especially the first ones of the year, the going-out-like-a-lion numbers March sets us up with.

But this one actually looks to be a particularly wimpy number. The sky's grey (not the cool-oh yellow, or green, it becomes with your really good barnstormers), the breeze is there, but not warm, and the patches of light are wan stuff, nothing electrically interesting to look at. Meh.

As to the headache - a bit strong, for as weak as the weather has a look of being. There's the barnstormer.

I'll be off shortly for an icepack (I keep two at all times for just this purpose; I've never used them for anything else, actually) for my skull, and some sort of indifferent meal.

Someone I know actually recently attempted to go headache-for-headache with me on a quantity basis. Even he had sense enough to qualify his statement as to his headaches' relative quality, though.

I'll say this: don't tell me about your puny little aches until you've had one that lasted you five months. You don't know a headache until you have as many ways of categorizing them as those imaginary Eskimoes they used to say had five hundred words for "snow". Rob McKenna's the guy who knows about precip.

I'm the chick who knows a headache when I have one. *Sigh*



My poor young relative. I pray that one was just an ordinary one.