It’s 4:09 am Sunday, February 14th.  I’m wrapped in a sleeping bag and my boyfriend’s sweatshirt in the living room of his apartment while he sleeps in the bedroom. Earlier this evening, we had plans with some other friends to eat dinner at a top-rated Mediterranean restaurant and karaoke afterward at my favorite Japanese establishment.

I had spent most of the day volunteering at a free clinic on six hours of sleep and one spring roll. After clinic and ballroom dance practice, I returned to my room to get ready. I was excited to wear my new black top (that is, one given to me second hand by a friend of my mom’s) with my dark sheen jeans from New York Company and try out the mineral makeup I had just bought from Costco. Staring closely into the sharded mirror, which my roommate had recently snapped by leaning against, I started to notice a light pressure pinpoint in the right anterior portion of my head, just above my eyebrow. I must be too hungry, the sooner we eat the better.

While my boyfriend drove us to downtown Sunnyvale’s boulevard of quaint restaurants, most of which were quite full of satisfied patrons enjoying their long weekend, I began to feel mareo, or dizziness (as I just learned today from interviewing a Mexican illegal immigrant about her symptoms). I could barely even walk the two blocks from the parking lot to the pedestrian walkway where the restaurant was located. We had arrived ten minutes late and kept our party waiting and hungry, so of course the polite thing to do was to order the first thing that looked decently satisfying. As soon as I blurted out my order, I excused myself to the bathroom. To my dismay, there were two other women and a man in front in line ahead of me. Stealing into the men’s room as soon as it was available, I waved my hand across the paper towel dispenser scanner, lay the torn sheet in front of the toilet, and squat embraced the bowl. Although a large volume of saliva came out, no vomit extruded. Any observer would’ve mistaken me for a bulemic. The door handle started shaking. Guess a customer must’ve gotten impatient.

I spent the entire dinner either cradling my head or burying it between my boyfriend’s and the chair’s backs. Everyone’s food looked so appetizing, but I couldn’t have any of it. I didn’t touch my salad, except for one lettuce leaf. Amazingly, the manager offered me some excedrin. We left a generous tip.

The car ride back home was the worst part. Finally in private, I started moaning every time the car changed acceleration. My boyfriend stopped the car to make sure I was ok, but I told him to get the worst part over with and hurry home. He obliged, dealing with my groans the entire way.

As I got out of the car, I couldn’t even stand up straight. I hobbled back to the apartment bent over like a hunchback, and only made it with his support. I immediately stripped off my jeans and curled into bed.

“Can you take off my bra?” I felt like an old person, or an invalid.

In the middle of that task, I asked, “Can you turn up the heat?” He immediately started to stand up.

“Wait, finish helping me with my bra first! And then can you get me some water?” (Which he orally delivered to my mouth, like a lactating mother.)

I’ve never experienced such a combination of acute migraine and nausea. I wanted to fucking die.  But as I fell asleep, I realized the silver lining in this whole mess.