At 3 p.m. yesterday, my neurologist’s office called. “Are you close enough to make it in by 3:45?” I hung up, shut down my computer, and left work.
The Frova hadn’t worked. 10 pills down and no relief. Not even a little, not slightly, none – at all. As I had now had this particular migraine for at least five days straight (don’t ask when it began – for some reason, pain is often difficult to pinpoint its beginnings,) it was decided I needed an IV to abort it quickly.
After being pumped full of enough liquid to bathe a baby in, I was told to lie still for five minutes. “It should kick in within thirty minutes to an hour,” said the P.A. “Go home, take 25mg of Phenergan, and get some rest.”
“Should I take my next scheduled dose of Frova?” I asked.
“Yes. Go ahead and take three Advil with it, too.”
Just as she closed the door, she stopped. “Oh, one last thing. Make an appointment for another injection tomorrow. This doesn’t have a very long half-life and you’re probably going to need at least one more.”
Five minutes passed. I made an appointment for two days later for a second injection (I do have to work – I can’t spend all my time in doctors’s offices) and went home with high hopes that maybe the pain would finally stop – even, if only for a little while.
Ah, optimism. So useful in keeping us going and yet so often disappointing. Granted, I didn’t take the Advil – I figured one more medication couldn’t possibly be all that helpful at anything other than giving me an ulcer – but I did take the Phenergan and the Frova.
The pain didn’t stop. It didn’t even loosen its grasp.