The weekend was a write-off.

I spent Saturday curled in a fetal position–when I wasn’t sprinting to the bathroom to throw up. Sunday was much better, except I felt fragile. Like it could all go bad again very fast.

It’s still too close to even write about it in any detail.

“It” is a violent, take no prisoners kind of headache.

I can’t call it a migraine as I’ve never been diagnosed. (They don’t happen frequently enough for me to bother seeing the doctor about them.) I cope by carrying Advil in my purse and drugging myself at the first twinge of anything not quite right in my head. Most of the time, it works, but sometimes . . . wham! . . . I’m down for the count and it’s headache 1, Sailor’s Woman 0.

After this latest experience, it’s time to talk to the doctor. A full-blown headache like this is just too terrible an experience to risk again. My hope is that he gives me something more powerful than my over the counter drug that knocks that headache right out of my head.

Of course, once I’m the epicentre of misery, I can’t keep anything down, even a sip of water sends me running to the bathroom, so I’d have to take it early enough. But I don’t want to start popping prescription pills unnecessarily so I’d probably wait…

I’m calling to make an appointment today…or maybe tomorrow. Today’s looking pretty busy.

What’s in Your Toe?

“So I asked the doctor if there was something living in it.”


We’d been having one of those conversations where my sailor blethers on about all kinds of things (he was probably still talking about those Olympic golds we won in hockey) while my mind wanders to more important issues like if it’s worth flat ironing my hair given current precipitation levels and whether the new issue of Oprah Magazine is on the shelves yet.

I looked up from my iPhone to notice my sailor was folded over, picking at his bare foot.

“What???” I asked again.

“I said that overtime goal was brilliant!”

“Not the hockey, sweetie. The doctor thing.”

“Oh–I noticed this small cut, a scratch really, on my toe just before I left Afghanistan. It seemed to be getting better, but then it crusted over and a thick creamy gel started seeping out.”

I backed away from him on the bed.

“I picked the scab off because that didn’t look right. There was hole underneath. When I went for my physical last week, I asked the doctor if he thought maybe something was living in it.”

Oh. My. God.

“What did the doctor say?”

My sailor reached for his socks. “He said to put Polysporin on it and come back in a couple of weeks if it hasn’t healed.”

“But what if there is something living in it? What if it jumps over to me? I think you need to start wearing socks to bed–thick ones.”

He shrugged. “You worry too much.”

Being me, I immediately went online to research bugs that burrow under human skin.

I found terrible photos of monstrous exploding blisters with baby spiders inside, and a British woman who discovered twelve flesh-eating maggots festering under tiny red bumps all over her body after a trip to Africa.

Forget socks–my sailor needs to start sleeping in gum boots until we get the all clear that there’s nothing living in the hole in his toe.