“Migraines” by William Henderson

You have gotten migraines since you were a child, but you think they are under control. You don’t even tell me about your history of migraines until one causes you to throw up at work. You can’t see well enough to get home, so one of your co-workers drives you. When you tell me, I tell you that you should have called me. I would have left work to get you, I say. I am worried because you are worried.

I loan you my car one afternoon so you can get to a doctor’s appointment at a hospital. The doctor does not know what is wrong. There are tests to run. You must return. You must stop working. You text that you will stop getting high. I think these migraines may be a gift. You ask if you can make a copy of my car key. Of course, I say. You leave my car for me to use when I am done working, and you take a train home. You have wrapped your hospital ID bracelet around my rearview mirror. I consider leaving it there.

I love the bracelet, I say to you.

I knew you would, you say. I love you. I wouldn’t be able to get through this without you.

I’m here for you, I say, whatever you need.

I listed you as my emergency medical contact, you tell me.

OK, I say. How did you describe our relationship.

I listed you as my partner.

Of course I am Holly’s emergency medical contact, but mostly by default. She’s my wife. You do not know that she is my wife. 

You’re my person, you say.

Other than when you are at a doctor’s appointment, you don’t leave your apartment, and you spend most of the time in you bedroom. You have taken a short-term leave of absence from work. Sometimes I stop by the store where you work to pick something up for you, and one of your co-workers asks about you, because they all know I’m your partner, and they send you well wishes through me. You hang blankets over your windows, and rarely turn on lights. You stop taking phone calls except for those from me and your mother. You ask me to take you to your doctor’s appointments, and sometimes you ask me to take you to the hospital because you do not know where else to go. You ask me to bring you lunch, and I leave work, go to the grocery store, and buy you what you want. I leave your lunch near your bed. Sometimes you say thank you. Sometimes you say nothing because your head hurts too much. I wipe your forehead. I take away your warm and used washcloths and bring you fresh ones. I try to be brave, but driving back to work, I cannot be brave, and I cry.

Driving you places and making sure have food are the only ways I can help. I would like to reach into your head, take the source of your migraines out, and put it in my head – anything to make sure you don’t die, which is how you say these migraines make you feel, that you are going to die.

 

You call me one morning as I’m walking into a meeting at work. I need you to come get me and take me to the hospital, you say. I cannot miss this meeting.

I can come get you at 12, I say.

I need you now, you say.

I can’t, I say, but I’ll come at 12.

Don’t bother, you say, and you stop responding to my efforts to reach you.

You tell me later that you got dressed, threw up twice, walked to a nearby train station, and when you realized that the train would not get you close enough to the hospital, you asked a bus driver if he drove past the hospital. The driver told you he didn’t know. You couldn’t risk not getting to the hospital. You took a train to where I work and texted me.

I need you to take me the hospital after all.

Of course, I say. Anything you need.

I take you to the hospital, and while you are there, you meet a man who works there who you tell me about later. He is cute, you say. You think he is gay. I apologize for not picking you up when you first asked me to. We pick up new prescriptions for you. The doctors have prescribed you several different types of medication. Nothing is working.

It is the Saturday before Father’s Day. The doctors still do not know what is causing your migraines. You are sleeping more. Since you have stopped getting high, you have started to dream. You do not regularly dream. You cannot remember most of your dreams, but the ones you remember are vivid and intense. I take my son, Avery, to the Charles River. I know you weren’t coming with us, but later, you and I have tickets to a concert. You had said you thought you’d be fine going to it. I’m looking forward to it, mostly because I know I can stay the night with you. I want more nights with you. I like the way we sleep when we sleep together, our legs tangled together, our breathing in sync.

Tomorrow is your first Father’s Day with Avery and with me and I have bought you a card. Inside the card, I have included a strip of photos of me and Avery that we took at a nearby mall. I helped Avery sign his name to the card. He used a red crayon. He colored over other parts of the card. I write that you have not only become my partner but you have become my son’s father. I look forward to other Father’s Days with you. No matter how scary letting go of my relationship with Holly and being all-in with you feels, I know it is the right decision. If anything, once you and I are living together, you’ll stop getting high. You have promised.

I am at a red light on my way to your apartment, and I see someone walking in the distance who looks like you. The day is hot. You can barely be outside, so I do not think the man walking toward me is you, but as I near him and as he nears me, I see that it is you. You see me and you keep walking. I pull over and unroll the passenger window.

What are you doing?, I ask. Where are you going? Get in.

You do not look at me. You shake your head. You keep walking.

In the backseat, Avery calls for you. D, he says. D. D. D.

I turn the car around, drive beside you, and you do not say anything, and then you look at me and tell me to go away.

Leave me alone, you say. I don’t want your help. I just want to go to the doctor in peace.

Let me take you, I say. Get in.

No.

What happened?, I ask.

You tilt your head backward, and you scream. You grip your head with your hands. I think you’re about to collapse. You keep walking. Avery is crying in the backseat. Let him go, I think. Let him go. I see the Father’s Day card in the passenger seat. I can’t let you go. You’re my partner. I’m your emergency medical contact.

I pull into a parking lot, and I turn off the car. I’ll be right back, Avery, I say. I run after you. What are you doing?, I ask. Stop and talk to me.

You keep walking.

D, I say. Talk to me.

You stop walking, take your headphones out of your ears, and tell me to leave you alone. I can’t depend on you to be there for me, you say. You failed me when I needed you. If I had been Holly or Avery, you would have left work without a second thought. You would have been there for them. I am your family, rabbit, and you were not there for me. I am tired of being a second-class citizen in your life. You need to go home and forget me. I can’t trust you to be there for me.

You keep walking, and I walk after you.

You are my family, I say. I would not have left work for Holly. She wouldn’t have asked me to leave work for her. As for Avery, of course I would leave work for him. He’s my son.

I have followed you the length of a city block, and I cannot keep going. I run back to my car. Avery is crying. Daddy, he says when he sees me. Why is D not here? Daddy? Daddy?

Hold on, baby, I say. I pull into another driveway nearer to where you are. I get out and run up to you.

Let me take you to the doctor, I say. You shouldn’t be walking. It’s hot. Your head.

My head?, you say. My head? You’re doing this to me.

What?, I ask.

I was talking to my sister last night, and she suggested that these migraines are because of you, and I was thinking about it, and I think she’s right.

I am not causing your migraines, I say. If I could think straight, I might be thinking that you like to blame me when things aren’t going well in your life, as if I’m the reason your life isn’t turning out the way you want it to. But I’m not thinking straight. All I can say is I am not causing your migraines. I can’t believe that you’d say this to me. I can’t believe that you’d think this about me.

Go home, you say. I need a partner who prioritizes me. And I can find him. You know everyone tells me I’m beautiful. I have my pick of men or women. Do you know how many people I work with who tell me that they will have a baby with me? I don’t need you. I can move on. You will never find someone who is as good to you as I am.

You’re screaming at me, and I am trying not to cry.

I prioritize you, I say. My mouth is beginning to go dry. Swallowing is difficult. I cannot moisten my lips.

You got lucky when you found me, you say. I was willing to take on your son, and then when you got someone pregnant without telling me about it first, I was willing to take on your other child. There is no one else out there who will take you and your two children. You will not find someone else like me.

I am your family, I say. I do not think you get to pick your family. I cannot unpick you. I am yours. You are mine.

No, you say.

The whole point, I say, is to find things that matter, people that matter, and hold on. You matter. We matter. This, I say, you and me, what we have, it matters.

No more, you say. We are not family. You walk even further away from me.

Fine, I say. And I reach into my pocket, pull my keys out, and I take the keys to your apartment off my ring. Take these back, I say, and I hand them to you. You take them and put them in your pocket. The last thing I need is for you to feel like you have to change your locks because of me.

We have reached the office building where your doctor is. I do not know what else to say to you. I have been gutted. My heart is gone because you are gone. No, you are not gone; you are leaving. I have been abandoned. You are abandoning me.

Can we talk about this?, I say. You have told me about the series of men who have hurt you, and how you were tired of being hurt. You have told me that I am the last man you will kiss and have sex with. You have told me I am your it. I have believed all of this. You are worth me changing my life. I can watch you go, or I can try to make you stay. I think you want me to try to make you stay, just to make sure that I am willing to fight for you. You need someone to fight for you. I am willing to fight for you. But I am tired. I cannot fight for us. I do not want to have to fight for us.

Just let me go to the doctor, you say. I will talk to you later. And you walk away from me, and Avery is crying, and I see a police car pulling into the parking lot of the office building, and I think someone must have called to report your screaming, and I cannot deal with any of this anymore, so I get in my car, wait until I see you walk into the building, and I leave.

Where’s D?, Avery asks.,

He’s sick, I say. I do not elaborate. Avery will not understand. I see the Father’s Day card in the passenger seat. I drive, even though I am having a difficult time seeing the road. At a red light, halfway between your apartment and my home, I open the card and I take out the pictures of me and Avery. I re-seal the envelope. At the next red light, I begin to tear the card into pieces. Three red lights later, the card is a pile of confetti-sized pieces in my lap. I unroll my window. I pick up some of the pieces, hold my hand outside the window, and I let the wind take the pieces of your card. I hurt. I do not want to hurt. You should not have the ability to hurt me. You said you would never hurt me. I watch the pieces. Some fall to the ground immediately; others take flight.

I text you. I tell you I am sorry for disappointing you. I tell you that you were made for me and I was made for you. I tell you that I love you and that you are my family and I am not willing to give up on you. I am here for you, I say. I love you. I know you love me. You are scared. I will not let you down again.

Just let me deal with this right now, and I will call you later, you say.

A couple of hours later, you text. How are you?, you ask. I say I’m fine. You ask me if I will talk to you. I call you.

We talk. You apologize straight away. You tell me you were scared, and you’re tired of your head hurting.

I need it to stop, rabbit, you say.

I know, horse, I say, which has become my pet name for you, though I can no longer remember why I picked it.

I fucked up, you say. You sound like you have been crying. I wasn’t sure you would pick up the phone for me.

I will always pick up the phone for you, I say. You are my family.

I know, rabbit, and you are mine. You tell me what the doctor told you, which is more of the same uncertainty and promises that a cure, or at least an explanation, is coming. I left you as my emergency medical contact, you say. Is that OK?

Of course, I say. That’s who I am. You know, a doctor once told me that humans are very much like animals, and when we hurt, we lash out at those around us because we are in pain and do not know how to best handle it. I can take you lashing out at me, I say. I am yours. That’s my job. They are going to fix what’s broken and you will be OK. We will get through it. Do you still want me to come over?

I feel good, you say. Please come over.

OK, I say. I’ll be there soon.

Can you pick up some aspirin?

Yes, I say.

I get to your apartment, and you have left the front door unlocked. I cannot remember the last time I have needed you to let me in. I walk into your bedroom. You are in bed. You get out of bed and you wrap your arms around me. I love you, rabbit, you say. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry too, I say.

Where is your key ring?, you ask.

I hand you my key ring, and you put the keys to your apartment on it.

Do not ever take these off again, you say.

OK, I say.

A few days later, the doctors find a cluster of cells in your head. These cells, the doctors say, are causing your migraines. The doctors neither know what caused the clusters to form nor what they can do to remove the cluster from your head. They give you a different prescription, which slowly begins to work. You have a line of pill bottles on a bookshelf in your room. You start taking a pill every morning.

 

We have tied ourselves back together. We act as if the fight did not happen. We joke about it. We call it our side-of-the-road fight. You tell me that sometimes you should just get in the car and shut up. I tell you that sometimes I should let you figure out on your own how good you have it without making an ass of myself in the process.

 

We are driving home from New York. This is our fourth trip to New York, just the two of us. You no longer tell me that there are tests to pass. Still, there are parts to reveal. These revelations – or, your revelations, because I still have not figured out how to reveal that I am married and what exactly my life has been like since I met Holly – no longer feel like the exploration at the beginning of a relationship. These parts feel like strands of our stories slowly becoming entwined. Your stories become my stories become our stories.

 

We have been talking about your mother. You are afraid. You haven’t said that you think she is going to die, but I think you think that she is going to die. I want to offer you my mother. She knows about you now. I sent her a picture. She said you were handsome. She wants me to be happy. She knows that Holly and I haven’t been happy in years. She hopes Holly and I can figure out how to divorce in a way that doesn’t hurt Avery. She hasn’t told me not to make the mistakes she and my father made, but I know she thinks that all the same.

 

You always seem so stoic, I say.

 

You think I’m stoic?

 

Well, you act level-headed a lot of the time.

 

Doesn’t mean I haven’t had things happen to me, you say.

 

But you don’t act like you’ve had things happen to you.

 

Because I’ve dealt with everything, you say.

 

I’m not so sure you’ve dealt with it, I say. You have a fear of rejection, and when you think you’re about to me rejected, you get defensive.

 

You have the same thing, you say

 

I do, I say, but haven’t we decided that at our cores we’re the same person?

 

Yes, you say. You reach for my hand and you hold it.

 

I don’t want to upset you by talking about this, I say.

 

You’re not going to upset me, Will. If you can’t talk with me candidly about this stuff, then where does that leave us?

 

But five months in, who am I to say that you have some issue?

 

You’re my partner. Whatever issues you would say are probably true. Yes, I am afraid that the people closest to me will reject me.

 

I think that’s why you hold on really tight and look for signs.

 

I don’t say that I think that that’s why you cling to unhealthy friendships with men who admire, if not love, you. These men will never reject you, and you know it.

 

Yes.

 

You didn’t see them and you got blindsided and you look for signs in anything.

 

I agree, rabbit. I am aware of my issues, and when I see these illogical things, most times I can catch them. Not always.

 

Really?, I ask.

 

Really. That might be why sometimes we end up on the side of the road. Who can say? But that doesn’t make my irrational fears have any merit. These are just my reasons for perceiving what I do how I do.

 

I know, I say.

 

Rabbit, you should revel in all of this. You have the ability to make me want to stay. You know me. You know where everything comes from, when it happens. You have that power. No one else has had it.

 

I don’t know if power is the word. I have an awareness. I can recognize it.

 

I told you from however many months in it was that I took you and Avery as is. I didn’t say you wouldn’t have to come after me. When you told me I didn’t have to love Avery, and I told you that I didn’t have a choice, I didn’t mean that as in I have to accept him or there is no you. I meant that as in when I looked at Avery, I loved him. And I didn’t have a choice. I had tried to explain that to you, but I don’t think that you recognized that that’s what I was saying. I didn’t even have to try with him. I don’t try with him. I didn’t have to research how to entertain a child. I just am. I am just myself with him, just like I am with you.

 

You are quiet. And then you laugh.

 

I had my penis out in your car earlier.

 

And you had. On our way to New York, you had had to pee, and we were miles from the next rest stop. You peed in a bottle. And then, a bit later, you took your penis out again, this time to masturbate while I drove.

 

You’re sure it’s an OK penis?, you ask. It’s one you can deal with?

 

I guess, I say. I don’t love you because of your penis, I think. I love you because you’re you. Your penis has nothing to do with it. Don’t you love me because I’m me?

 

That’s not the right word. Really? You guess.

 

Yes.

 

I guess? OK, I guess I can deal with yours too. I guess it will be fine. I mean, I’m not going to get penis surgery for you. That’s not something I want to do.

 

Are you ashamed you had your cock out twice?

 

No.

 

Were you trying for a third time?

 

I wouldn’t say trying.

 

You wouldn’t turn it down.

 

I rarely turn down you touching my cock. Has there been a time? I did turn you down videoing me peeing into a bottle. But I think that’s kind of an OK turndown. I would let you tape me playing with my cock, but I don’t think peeing in a bottle and driving is appropriate. Unless you got the whole picture and I could be peeing into a bigger cup. It was an awkward moment for me to even try to get around this seatbelt. We’ve had interesting moments today.

 

We always do.

 

Like dropping me off at the ER.

 

I did it late, I say.

 

You even do it late.

 

I did not prioritize you.

 

I also didn’t have a brain aneurism, you say.

 

I don’t think you would have tried very hard, if you had gotten out of the hospital and tried to talk to me and I had said no.

 

If you had told me no you didn’t want to talk?

 

Yeah. You were already expecting me to fail.

 

I think I would have pushed a little more.

 

I don’t think you would have pushed at all.

 

You know what, Will, I mean, after that whole lovely charade, I kind of looked back on it and was like, Jesus Christ, how do we make things OK from here. I looked back on it and I was like, you know, is that something we’re going to be able to laugh at? I mean, how can you – I mean, I relived the things I said, and I watched in my mind the way we must have looked. I believe we stopped in four parking lots. But thank you for that. Whatever that was, thank you.

 

You were angry.

 

I’m sure it was a comical sight, you say. You know, it’s kind of nice, as unpleasant as that was, it’s nice to know that we have a real relationship, where things aren’t always perfect. Because I think we do. Everything seems to fall into place a lot of the time, and it’s kind of nice to know that we can still fuck up a little bit. You know? And we do it so well together. We do both sides really well.

 

Thanks for picking me, I say.

 

I don’t have a choice.

 

You do, I say. Like you said, everyone who comes into contact with you thinks you’re beautiful. You were very clear.

 

And you are you.

 

I sure am.

 

And you’re my it. So I can’t say there’s much choice in that. It’s taken me this long, and I’ve gone through so much to get here to be with you, aside from some ranting on the side of the road, I mean, why would I throw it all away and never find happiness.

 

You could find it, I say.

 

Could I?

 

Yes.

 

You think so? You think you could walk away from me and you’re going to find something equal to this or better? Haven’t you said that you can’t see your life without me in it?

 

Yes, but I could find something different.

 

Usually when you leave something good, you should have an upgrade in mind.

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William Henderson works as a freelance writer, editor, and copyeditor, and is a full-time father to his children, Avery and Aurora. He can be reached at wil329@yahoo.com, on Twitter @Avesdad, and through his blog, HendersonHouseofCards.wordpress.com.