Everything flows and nothing stays.
That was my momma’s favorite saying. She started saying it as a way to forgive my dad when he finally admitted he had a whole second family a couple counties over. It was the most messed-up situation, the way my mom found out.
That saying sure was true with Bryan. He was unemployed when I met him, and when he did work, cleaning pools didn’t bring in enough to help with childcare and groceries. He flows in and out of my life, having a “boisterous uncle” type of relationship with Mia, but he never stays. He can’t be relied on to pay child support, to pick her up from school. I have sole legal custody, but that’s never stopped him from dropping in on us if he’s driving by and stealing Mia away for ice cream.
Everything flows and nothing stays.
Not Bryan and, sadly, not my momma either.
When my mom was around, I didn’t worry as much about money, about childcare, or about whether or not Bryan had been around to see his daughter in months, weeks, or days.
But since Mom’s been gone, everything has seemed darker, harder. And today’s a day that I could use her strength. Her faith in everything turning out okay.
I walk softly down the hallway to the bathroom, moving gently because any sudden move can change this “might be a headache” to a full-on attack by my body on my brain.
I flip on the bathroom light and squint against the intensity of the halo that lights up behind my eyelids.
“I’ve got this,” I tell myself and shove aside the shower curtain.
I turn on the water and decide on a shower. A bath feels like less effort, but I’m worried if I get down into the tub, it’ll be too hard for me to get up alone. I let the water splash across my belly, breasts, and gently wash my face.
Once I start to lather my hair, it’s clear that nothing I do is going to slow this train. This migraine’s got me in its cross hairs, and I now need to outrun it.
My hand is shaking, or maybe it just feels that way, as I turn off the water and grab a towel. I blot my face and leave my hair dripping, just a towel over my shoulders to soak up the water flowing from my long hair. Bending and wrapping my head is literally the last thing I can do. I’ll put my hair in a very loose wet bun if that’s what it takes to get out of the house today.
“Mia…” I sigh and check the time.
Still wrapped in my towels, I shove open her bedroom door. A mermaid nightlight glows a soft blue on her bedside table. My daughter’s bare foot sticks out from beneath the covers, and her blankets are tangled like she went ten rounds in her sleep, trying to fight her way through her dreams.
“Baby,” I whisper to keep the volume of my voice quiet as it bounces inside my head. “Time to get up for school.”
I stroke her leg and shove aside the mess of blankets. She lifts her eyebrows as though she’s having a tough time opening her eyes.
“Okay, Mama,” she breathes.
“Are your clothes all ready?” I ask.
She nods into her pillow and then opens her eyes fully. “I picked out the glittery donut dress last night. Can I wear tights?”
I smile. My big girl loves wearing dresses with tights, even running around in the Florida heat. But she’s seven, so I let her suffer for fashion as long as the consequences aren’t too severe. “Of course.”
It kills me, but I don’t bend down to kiss her face, worried that anything I do to send blood to my head will speed up the arrival of the headache that’s looming. “I’m going to get dressed and make breakfast.”
I walk into my room and pull on a pencil skirt and a plain white blouse. My wet hair is going to drip all over the work blouse, so I grab a dry towel from the hall closet and wrap it over my shoulders like a shawl.
I head downstairs, slowly gripping the handrail like I’m ninety and not twenty-nine. At the bottom of the stairs, Mia’s backpack is ready to go, but I need to get her lunch and snacks from the fridge. I tiptoe through the quiet home, saying a prayer to the headache gods.
“I just have to make it through the day,” I say. “Then I can come home and climb into bed.”
I desperately want a little coffee, but making it feels like too much effort. If I leave the house a few minutes early, I can grab coffee at work after I drop off Mia. There’s a snack shop in the lobby of my building. Their coffee tastes stale, but it’s there as a last resort if I get desperate. And I am desperate. I’m already on a performance plan. A PIP, as my boss so casually likes to call it. As if a happy-sounding little acronym changes what it means.
Performance Improvement Plan.
I take Mia’s lunch box and snack from the fridge and set them on top of her backpack, counting the number of sick days I’ve taken in the last three months alone. My head hurts too much for math, but it’s a lot—too many. My work is exceptional when I’m in the office, but between my own headaches and Mia having a tough time adjusting to life without her grandma, it’s true. My performance could use a hell of a lot of improvement. Well, maybe not my performance, but my attendance. The real estate company I work for doesn’t have enough employees to have a whole HR department, so it’s just Jeff, the owner, and his grandfather running roughshod over my attendance record.
“If we had a three-strike rule, you’d have been gone two or three times over, Birdie.”
I check my phone and note the time. We need to get moving, but speed is the last thing I have working for me today.
I head back up the stairs and stop by the bathroom, where Mia is trying to pull a brush through a particularly gnarly-looking tangle.
“Oh God, honey. Stop.” I grab the detangling spray and saturate the knot, then take a turn with the brush, trying to work through the mess. “What did you do?” I ask, trying not to hurt her scalp as I pick at the knot. “Roll around in bed all night?”
She nods. “I had a lot of weird dreams.”
I grab a sparkly hair tie from the vanity drawer and pull her hair into a ballerina-style bun on the top of her head. That tangled mess in the back will require time and patience. The kind of time and patience I don’t have. Not with a morning staff meeting and the threat of a headache pounding in my skull.
“What kinds of dreams?” I ask. I’m pretty sure I already know. The same nightmares that have made her miss school and me miss work after many sleepless nights. But I ask anyway.
She shrugs. “You know.”
Mia started having nightmares when my migraines came back about six months ago. I tried to hide the fact that I was struggling from her, but after too many hours in the bathroom or in bed, I had to admit the truth. It’s been a couple of months of these symptoms, and the migraines are definitely back.
I smooth the loose tendrils of hair into her bun. “Baby,” I say, even though my Mia is a big girl of seven. “Mama gets headaches sometimes. I know they can be pretty scary, but they aren’t serious. You don’t have to be afraid. You know what to do if I get really sick.”
She nods. “Take your phone and call one of my friends’ moms.”
“Which one would you call first?” I ask.
“Sophia’s.”
I smile. “And do you know how to find Sophia’s mom in my phone?”
She nods.
“And what if no one answers when you call? If it’s a real emergency and you’re really scared, what do you do?”