Another Spectrum

Personal ramblings and rants of a somewhat twisted mind


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A week of it

It’s been one of those weeks where it has made itself very present in my life. In fact it has been intruding somewhat more frequently than normal over the last month or so.

At the beginning of the week (or was it the weekend? Timelines are rather vague things when it is around), I went out for a short evening stroll of ten to fifteen minutes only to return home five hours later, shortly after midnight.  Obviously it had plans I’m not aware of. I have no idea where it lead me, but judging by the wear on my sandals and the pain in my leg muscles the next day, I walked nonstop for the entire time.

Then mid-week, I took the car to our garage for its six-monthly WoF (Warrant of Fitness). As I was handing over the keys, I felt that odd out of body sensation that I sometimes get before it makes an appearance. Fortunately there’s a supermarket next door to the garage, so I decided to head there and buy an isotonic drink in case it was being triggered by dehydration.

I remember walking through the supermarket carpark (parking lot), but have no recollection of entering the store. As best I can work out, a friend saw me staggering about in the town square over an hour later.

Apparently others had seen me but assumed I was intoxicated and did nothing to assist me. However she knew enough about it to get me safely home.

By Friday my wife was concerned that it had been around almost continuously for a week and showing no signs of leaving. She managed to get an appointment at short notice at the medical centre. Apparently the doctor took one look at me and promptly ordered an ambulance.

I have no recollection of visiting the medical centre or of the trip to hospital. I do have a vague recollection of having a fascination with a stream of lights, which were probably passing ceiling lights as I was wheeled down corridors.

The first clear recollection I have is being told that I would be going for a CT scan shortly. I had the scan at about 2:00 am on Saturday morning.

It seemed to have abandoned me by midday Saturday, and I was informed that I would be discharged later in the day provided I could show I could walk steadily. Finally I was given my discharge form mid afternoon, and an hour later I was home.

Has it left me for the time being? It doesn’t seem so. It had taken up residence again by the time I woke up this morning (Sunday). It is just being a minor nuisance at the moment – a mild pulsating headache and a misjudgment of clearances between objects on my right and and various parts of my anatomy (and I have the bruises to prove it). I am hoping it will soon get bored and leave me alone for a while. Time will tell.

I notice that it has been given a new name. On previous discharge forms it was either not given a first name, or was given a first name of “atypical”. This time it had been given a new first name of “hemiplegic”. It‘s last name hasn’t changed. That’s still “migraine”.

Hello hemiplegic migraine. I can’t say I’m pleased to know you.


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A week in the life of … (part 1)

As he passed through the bedroom doorway, his right shoulder collided painfully with the door-frame, followed immediately by the little toe on his right foot doing the same. While he is accustomed to abusing his shoulder in this manner, the same can’t be said for the toe. If he was into swearing, this would have been an opportune time to do some. The toe is positively yelling at him to say something – anything – loud and inappropriate. As usual, he can’t think of a single expletive in the heat of the moment, but he manages to expel air between clenched teeth, making a satisfying groaning sound, quite appropriate for the situation he thought.

The throbbing toe, while painful, distracts him from the the little man in his head bashing the inside of his left temple with a sledgehammer. As he descends the stairs, the throbbing in his toe subsides, and the thumping pain in his head returns with vengeance. He wishes that the toe would complain for a little longer – “a change is as good as a rest” he recalls. He feels sorry for the little man with the sledgehammer. The man has been swinging it non-stop for two days, so he’s probably quite tired by now.

At the foot of the stairs, he turns and goes into the kitchen carefully keeping as far to the left as possible. No sense in colliding with another door-frame. His wife isn’t there as he expected. He goes to the window and looks down to the carport below. No car. She must have left early. Did she say good-bye to him this morning? He can’t recall. He turns to look at the clock on the wall. No clock. He looks away and then back to where the clock should be. Slowly it fades into view. First the sliver grey frame, then the white face followed soon after by the numbers. Finally the hands appear. Eight o’clock.

Coffee time. He goes to the cup rack his daughter made at school many years ago. A beautiful wood-stained object with three crossarms capable of holding six large coffee mugs. He waits for a cup to fade into view. His first attempt at grabbing a cup fails as his hand passes straight through it. He closes one eye and has another attempt. Success. He picks up the stainless steel coffee plunger. By its weight there is at least two cups of coffee remaining. He pours out a cup, then wipes up the copious amount of liquid spilt onto the bench-top.

He searches for the sugar bowl. He knows it should be on the island counter-top and starts scanning for it. On the third scan he locates it, almost directly in front of him. He tips two teaspoonfuls of sugar into the coffee cup, not noticing that he spilt most of the second onto the counter. He makes his way to the microwave, and places the cup inside. He goes back to to gather a dishcloth to wipe the spilt coffee from the turntable. Closing the door, he presses “Warm+” and then the “Start” button.

He waits while the microwave’s infra-red sensor monitors the rising temperature of his drink. He becomes aware of a dampness in his right sock. Had he spilt something and stepped in it? He looked down at the floor. Red streaks. Where did they come from? Plum jam? Beetroot? He doesn’t recall seeing either today? It looks like … blood!

To be continued.


Contrary to popular opinion, migraines are not just a bad headache. They can affect a sufferer in many different ways. This story is an attempt to describe a week in the life of a chronic migraineur. The migraineur in the story is not exceptional. His symptoms, while not common, are not as extreme as experienced by many others. He has auras and other visual disturbances, loses fine motor control, and experiences cognitive and executive failure during attacks.

Between attacks he has been described as of above average intelligence, open minded and having a dry sense of humour. During attacks he has been seen by others as being drunk or under the influence of drugs, having a stroke, or suffering from dementia.

The story is being told because too many people have little or no tolerance of those who are “different”. The aim is not to gain sympathy. It’s not wanted or needed. The aim is to give a little insight into the life of just one person who is just a little different from the norm. If it paves the way for a few to become more accepting of others, then it will have served its purpose.

The person portrayed in the story is real and and the events described will be those that happened to him over a single week. I will endeavour to be as accurate as I can, but as some events cannot be recalled fully, some “filling of the gaps” may be required. For this, I hope I am forgiven.

In case you are wondering how I am able to tell this story in detail, it’s because it comes from personal experience. The week is just one out of the fifty two I lived this last year.


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“If I was you, I would kill myself”

Believe it or not, those words (slightly paraphrased) were said to me by a counsellor I was seeing. That was five years ago. The reason I was seeing the counsellor is irrelevant to this story suffice to say that it was related to a matter that seriously affected my relationship to those nearest and dearest to me.

I had just completed describing my everyday life to her when she uttered those words. It wasn’t something she blurted out, but was a slow and careful statement made after a moment of silence. I wasn’t shocked by her statement, but I remember thinking that it was was an inappropriate comment for a counsellor to say to a client. I didn’t understand then, and still don’t understand now, why anyone in my situation would want to contemplate suicide, but I when I have discussed the inappropriateness of her comment with others, many have tended to agree with her.

So what is it about my life that others think should make it unbearable?

For as long as I can remember I have had headaches. I’ve also had periods when I become totally disoriented and confused. There would be occasions when, for example coming home from school, I would discover I was somewhere I didn’t recognise and didn’t have a clue how I got there. There would be times when I couldn’t comprehend what people were saying even though I understood each of the words they used. Sometimes I would forget the meaning of specific words. Sometimes a word I wanted to utter was replaced by something totally different. Sometime my sensitivity to light and sound became unbearable. Often these cognitive problems coincided with the headaches, but not always. Not knowing any different, I thought this was normal.

As I entered puberty, the headaches become more frequent and often were accompanied by bouts of nausea and vomiting. These were diagnosed as migraines. These migraine attacks would  occur somewhere between  once every few days to once or twice a month. I was still plagued by the cognitive problems but less frequently than the headaches, and not realising that they were not normal, I never mentioned them to anyone. I was assured that I would “grow out” of the migraines, and by the time I was twenty, the migraine attacks were down to about one every two or three weeks.

This state of affairs remained until I was in my thirties when the migraines slowly increased in frequency. It was also beginning to dawn on me that there were significant events that I had no memory of, and couldn’t be explained away as forgetfulness. There were times were I felt a distinct disconnect between my mind and my body – almost like I was simply an observer of another being. I also noticed that sometimes I would forget how to do simple things such as tying my shoelaces, or, if I did remember how, I couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate. I became sufficiently concerned about these issues that I finally mentioned it to my doctor when I turned forty.

A series of tests revealed nothing untoward, and I suspect the medical profession thought I was making it all up. I almost convinced myself that it was “all in my mind” and perhaps I should seek the help of a psychiatrist. I didn’t. The migraines continued to increase in frequency and intensity through my forties, as did the cognitive problems. I found I often missed door openings and collided painfully with the door frame or find that the fifteen minute drive from work to home would take an hour and a half.

I had just turned fifty when it was decided I could no longer work full time, and I had my first EEG and brain MRI. The EEG was “inconclusive”. The MRI revealed an unusual occurrence of white matter, but was “considered not to be relevant” to my symptoms. Shortly after this I was picked up by the police as I was apparently staggering around town as if I was intoxicated. It seems they thought I might be having a stroke and when I came to I found myself in the unpleasant noisy and brightly lit environment of the Emergency department of a nearby hospital.

This was the first of many occurrences where I have ended up in hospital with stroke-like symptoms. Despite multiple MRIs, EEGs, CT scans, x-rays, blood tests, spinal taps and psychiatric examinations, no definitive explanation has been found. The closest they have come to a diagnosis is “it’s possibly atypical migraine”.

At sixty I was diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. This possibly gives an explanation as to why I don’t feel as distressed about my condition as others think I should be. And while I can intellectualise why perhaps others might find my life is distressing, I just can’t feel it.

Now I’m in my mid-sixties, and my headaches, cognitive skills and motor skills fluctuate on a daily basis. Some days I’m almost in a vegetative state, on other days I feel like I’m a kid again. Some days I worry about the stress I undoubtedly impose on my family.

But on the whole, I am happy. I can still admire the beauty of a sunrise, experience the thrill of a thunderstorm, delight in the squeals of joy from small children. When I’m able, I can still enjoy taking part in a deep philosophical discussion, or feeling the breeze on my face on a long walk.

Yes, life is good.