I remember my first migraine. It was during the first week of my freshman year. I didn’t even know my schedule yet. I was in Business class when my skull suddenly felt like it was full of lava. My hands and feet were tingling, my skin began to sweat. 

I laid my head down on the table, and it became too heavy to pick back up. Every time I moved my eyes, daggers pierced them, and every sound ripped through my ears as if fireworks were shot directly at my eardrums. My friend told me to go to the office, and I admitted that was the best plan. When I stood, the world swayed, and my stomach did vertigo-induced back flips. I put one foot in front of the other, but the tiles jumped around them. My walk was more of a stagger.

When I reached the office I leaned on the door frame, but it failed to still the world. The sweet office attendant, Nancy, looked at me with concern.

“Holly, honey,” she’d asked. “Are you feeling all right?” 

I don’t remember answering, but suddenly I was looking at the ceiling. My brain felt like it was too big, like my head was a balloon that would soon explode.

“Holly!” Nancy called, then I was looking up at her.

I wanted my dad. I think I told her that.

The rest of the office staff helped me into a dark room; they all were so kind. My face was wet so they gave me tissues, but I didn’t use them. I couldn’t move.

When my dad showed up, he carried me to the car. I wanted to thank him, but my head was screaming too loud for me to even remember how to speak. He drove me to the hospital. My doctor’s name was Tammy. She gave me a shot for the pain and told me to drink more water.

I was back with Tammy a week later, because I couldn’t get out of bed and missed school. Tammy ordered a CT scan because she was worried about tumors. Upon finding no tumors, she diagnosed me with dehydration, despite my mother’s and my concerns that something more was wrong. She condescendingly told me to drink more water and sent me on my way.

That year, I missed almost 20 days of school due to migraines, and spent nearly every day with a headache of some sort. I didn’t want to see Tammy again, because I couldn’t deal with her patronizing tone and unhelpful treatments. So I didn’t go to a doctor at all. I refused whenever my parents suggested I go back. By sophomore year, I spent most nights hurting too much to sleep, or the pain would wake me up in the middle of the night. I started drinking coffee because the days began to drag. By my junior year, my schoolwork was slacking because I couldn’t focus in or out of class; I began to pull away from my friends because I could never do anything with them. My stomach was always hurting because I was too nauseous to eat, and I lost considerable weight. My athletics were mediocre at best and, in the beginning of my senior year, I couldn’t make it through a volleyball practice without getting a migraine. 

I was barely making it through life, self-medicating with caffeine, ibuprofen, and Excedrin. I wasn’t eating, exercising, or socializing, and my mental health had been bad to begin with. I was feeling hopeless. I was irritable all the time, due to hunger and insomnia. There were almost weeks at a time when I didn’t shower because I didn’t have the energy. 

Eventually, after my father argued with Tammy for a good hour, my mother decided to take me to the hospital, a good one that was an hour away in La Crosse. 

My head felt like Jell-o as per usual as we made our way to the third floor of the hospital. I was sent directly to a neurologist, John, who diagnosed me with a mixed headache and migraine disorder. His nurse practitioner, Stacey, was very kind and began asking me the usual questions about allergies, medications, diet, and exercise. I lied on some of the questions, unwilling to share. Not ready to trust.

“On a scale of one to ten,” – she pointed one of those cheesy charts of pain where the emoji faces seem to get more blue as the number rises – “how bad are your headaches?”

“Like, a six,” I lied. I didn’t want to sound like I was exaggerating. I had been constantly told that I was overreacting. Not only by my parents, but also by my doctors.

“Okay, and how often?” She typed something into her computer. She looked a lot like my friend Taylor, I thought.

“Almost every day.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What does almost mean? Every other day?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

She turned fully toward me then, and looked me in the eye, as if trying to read my mind. “Do you have a headache now?”

I broke eye contact and nodded.

“And on a scale of one to ten?” She gestured once again to the chart. I stared at the faces, slowly turning blue. Choking on their own pain.

“Seven,” I breathed.

“Okay.” She typed more into her computer. “I will get you a shot of Toradol before you leave today. We are going to need to test your neurological responses.”

“What does that mean?” I asked nervously.

She held up a paper and pen. “Draw the face of a clock for me.”

I must have done well because she nodded and set it aside. She tested my reflexes next, then shined a light in my eyes.

“Okay, hold out your arms, palms up,” she commanded. When I did that, she pushed down on them. “Don’t let me move your arms.” Then she pushed up. She did the same things with my legs, and made me close my eyes as she touched one of my fingers, then me tell her which finger she had touched. It all felt quite ridiculous. She had me walk in funny lines and stand on one leg. I felt like I was getting a sobriety test.

Then she had me take off my jacket. She wanted to listen to my lungs and heart. She saw my arms. 

“What are these from?” She rested a finger on my inner arm, upon the slowly healing lines.

Panic seized my heart, clawed at my stomach, and shot like ice through my veins. “I don’t remember,” I whispered, begging with my eyes to make her stop asking questions. She didn’t believe me, I knew that, but she didn’t push it.

I was on edge again. I pulled my jacket back on the second she turned back to her computer. The rest of our appointment was spent talking about what came next, treatment-wise.

I remember her telling me that it was pretty uncommon to have symptoms for as long as I did without a diagnosis, that it had probably gotten worse due to lack of treatment. She even made me go through an MRI because she didn’t think she could trust my past imaging. 

She sent me to a therapist, and put me on meds to help my headaches. She also prescribed some as-needed medication to take for migraines, as well as an antidepressant. I cried on the drive home because I was so relieved. I was beyond grateful to finally have a doctor that listened, and to finally know what was happening to me. 

Doctors have been influential to my life. However, my experience was not always pleasant. I have had good doctors and bad doctors. The experience has left me wary of hospitals, but I’ve learned to question my care to be sure I’m getting good, quality treatment.

I was misdiagnosed as a 14-year-old, and it made my life hell for the next three years. Every aspect of my life was affected and I resent that doctor for it. When I finally got the proper care, my entire life turned around. Everything felt possible again. I may never forgive that doctor for what I went through, but I hope that teens reading this will understand the importance of a second opinion.