After a headache has been with me for several days, through four or five triptans, fading to a shadow for hours at a time before ticking back into being like an ancient heart that cannot, will not, is fated not to cease its tenure on this earth, I start to feel a little comradeship with the thing. The headache’s desire to live is inspiring. I think about mountaineering disasters in which savagely injured people, left without food or water for many dry days and frigid nights, pull themselves down couloirs and over glaciers and pick through rock fields like broken insects, every reason in the world to die and nothing on their side. I feel for the edges of the headache and count the time it has spent cheating oblivion. If my turn comes, I think, let me be as dogged.
On Friday it had been three days, and I had reached the stage of comradeship. I was also tired of trying to teach myself R while the headache gathered its resources, and equally tired of the bed. I got dressed for a run, even though I knew it was a bad idea. I just wanted to be outside. Two miles in I had already stopped twice to grip my head in my hands for a minute before resuming, a pointless thing you do because it feels as if pushing back on the pulsing must be a way to quiet it. It isn’t, of course. But running jags pain, so I walked to smooth the headache’s sawteeth.
I run around the lake all the time, but when you run it’s hard to take in more from the periphery than the occasional rotary phone ring of a Red-winged Blackbird in the rushes, or the delicate coughing of a tea party of Coots on the water. I walk around the lake with Ross sometimes, but then we’re often talking, and talking turns you inward. This walk was slow, to placate the headache, and quiet, because I’d nothing more to say to it.
I spent a long time looking at the bark on a single Silver Birch, which had the appearance of a sheet of white ice stopped in the midst of cracking and to which all kinds of things of interest were attached. Amid the greenshield and the oakmoss was what looked like an adult crane fly that had lost its battle to escape from a web, all crumpled stilt-legs and sailor-striped abdomen and tracing-paper wings. There was another Dipterid, alive and well, its body a dusty terracotta orange and wings a mosaic of scotch-tape. A Black-capped Chickadee was making noise above, and since I learned to love them in Chicago I was, as always here, disconcerted to hear its clear, descending Ohhh well! replaced with a faint tremolo. I wondered if that ever would seem right.
A little further on, a flock of Audubon’s warblers with egg-yolk rumps and throats spilled whistles as they circled the canopy of a cedar, like Cinderella’s helpers laying tinsel. Everything seemed to be in that cedar at once, though a lot of that was surely the ventriloquism that all birds practice without effort. I heard House Finches and Song Sparrows and Brown Creepers and both colors of hyperactive Kinglets, not to mention Juncoes trilling like spring alarms that no one can snooze. Crows, of course, were ubiquitous; but I never tire of their chest-dipping caws or their roulette-ball clatter. The headache was no longer the only thing keeping time.
I kept stopping to look at things in odd places and sometimes people then stopped to look at me. It happened with a Great Blue Heron, which I watched for about 15 minutes cleaning its bill meticulously. Its stiff pink probe of a tongue kept darting out and in and out and in between the mandibles, as if it were a separate creature, and every now and then the heron would gulp abruptly from the water with what looked like anger but was nothing of the sort. I could see its soft crest blowing slightly in the breeze, and soothed myself in counting the gorgeous feathered fray of its chest. It was the antithesis of the hectic songbirds, which seem to compress life as we know it, life full of desire, into the smallest, speediest form it can take. The heron was large and slow, and even when it did familiar things, like drink and bathe and look at you, it remained strange.
Because I had stopped to look at the heron and a woman had stopped to look at me, she saw the heron, too. She inhaled from the cigarette in her hand and then flung that arm away, with what looked like disdain but was perhaps nothing of the sort. “There’s a really funny-looking bird over here!” she said to her friend, who was tucking a blanket around a child in a stroller and did not care to comment. The heron also did not care to comment.
This morning would have been Day Four with the headache, but I took the second-to-last of my month’s supply of triptans last night, and it slipped away in my sleep. I don’t miss it.