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This might be the end, y’all | Column

by | May 4, 2019 5:00 pm

Last Updated: May 1, 2019 at 1:50 pm

I’m no hypochondriac, but this might be the end, y’all.

My head feels like a hammer is pounding a railroad spike through my skull, just above my nose. It hurts so bad I can’t read or exercise or watch one of the 74 episodes of “House” I’m hoarding. It hurts so bad I can’t even eat, which means I’m already dead and don’t know it yet.

The thing is, I’ve had maybe three headaches in my life. I just don’t get them, like some people never throw up.

My mom used to have what the old folks called “sick headaches,” which sent her to bed in a darkened room with a cold rag on her forehead.

She didn’t fall out or get dizzy, so I don’t think they were migraines. I think they were from raising four noisy kids in a tiny house, cooking, cleaning, tending a half-acre vegetable garden, sewing, canning, chauffeuring, washing dishes, doing laundry, shopping, mowing grass and ironing. Dang right I’d be lying in a dark room with a cold rag on my head.

(You may be wondering, where was Dad? While he was a loving parent and faithful provider, he didn’t lift a finger at home and nobody thought he should. He supported the household and Mom kept it running. If he’d washed a dish, she’d have fainted in the middle of her freshly-waxed floor.)

But we were talking about my pounding head. I haven’t told my husband, Widdle Baby, about my agony because he’d immediately try to shove ibuprofen, Tylenol, Advil, Excedrin, Aleve or some other OTC meds in my mouth. Which is what sensible people do for a headache, but we all know I’m not sensible.

I’ve always hated taking medicine, for two reasons: 1) When we kids had a cold, fever, or upset stomach, Mother dosed us with an unholy patent brew called “Save the Baby,” a glass bottle of camphor oil with a mysterious gritty powder on the bottom. You had to shake it up before consuming it, and after consuming it, you prayed for death. It tasted like burnt motor oil and rotten eggs. Recently I mentioned “Save the Baby” while FaceTiming with my brother T-Bob. He didn’t say, “It was horrible,” or, “Don’t remind me.” No, he reared back and bawled, “GAH! SHUT YOUR FACE!” That’s some bad juju right there.

Reason # 2) I believe the body can often repair itself if we support it with whole foods, sleep and hydration. On the other hand, if clean living could cure us, nobody would take insulin, high blood pressure meds or statins. So I stagger on, skeptical of Western medicine but not 100 percent sold on hemp oil or colonics.

My older brother, Bubba, used to have terrible sinus headaches that made the ridge above his eyebrows swell until he looked like a cave man. Surgery fixed him right up. Maybe I need surgery.

Aside from my headache, Widdle claims I’m snoring like a bull moose lately, which probably means I have a giant nasal tumor that is slowly strangling me while causing crushing headaches. The good news is, I’ve had a great life and I drew up a will 20 years ago.

The bad news is, I’ve only known Widdle for 14 years, haha. Just kidding, babe! You get everything, including stuff you don’t want, like Sidney Sheldon paperbacks and weird oil paintings.

For now, I think I’ll go lie down in a dark room with a cold rag on my head. It can’t hurt.

Julie R. Smith, who also has a permanent itch between her shoulder blades, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

 

 

 

 

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