I was disappointed that a migraine broke through my defense array yesterday evening; I had so hoped the hospital-administered injection would protect me longer than 12 days. At 1east this one was tractable—what I call a “walking migraine”—and responded to “first-strike” remedies. Actually, it brought back-up. The vanguard responded quickly to Imitrex and my subjugated system celebrated its liberation. Three hours later, the next wave marched in, less of a “walker” because I was more tired. I chomped a Maxalt and took a Phenergan so I’d sleep, and to ward off the nausea faction. The mercenaries retreated, but I’m still whooshed this morning. I caught up and wrote an Amazon review of a book I read a month or more ago, but catching up with my normal Tuesday routine remains a belayed aspiration at this 11:09 writing. I am organizing the perseverance contingent for duty. We carry on. (It may be a tad evident I’m reading Churchill’s Their Finest Hour. It may be a tad evident this isn’t mine.)


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