The very worst thing is the fear. It nudges me awake in the night, insists that now my headache is beyond bearable, nags me to get down to the 24-hour medical centre right away. It hints my child will have to finish growing up without me, my man can’t cope, no-one else could possibly understand my way of filing papers.
Not that all the rest is easier. The confusion of odd symptoms like suddenly going deaf in one ear, wondering how come I can’t envisage a familiar driving route, searching the sky for the jumbo jet flypast only to find it’s happening inside my head, and the infuriating tinnitus. The disorientation of my brain swimming a split second behind my turning skull and swinging too far round before settling back eventually in the right place. And the hurt that, without blackout or blood, people call my injury “not very serious”.
Darkened bedroom; dulled cutting edge; bulging, throbbing to-do list; I say it’s serious.