You know those prescription commercials where the actors stroll through a meadow in soft sunlight, holding hands with their partners, or kids, or dogs, while the narrator whispers about “mild discomfort” as a possible side effect? Mild my butt.
My daily migraine medication gifted me a “side effect” so dramatic it deserved its own film score. I am talking constipation so intense I briefly considered calling a midwife or performing surgery on myself with a butter knife, like I was starring in a medical drama that would immediately get canceled.
It started simply enough. I take my medication every morning. The migraines stay mostly in check. Then one day, my stomach feels like it is full of cement and regret.
I tried everything. Hydration. Fiber. Deep breathing. Apologizing to my colon for whatever sins I committed in a past life. Nothing helped.
Finally, I broke out the nuclear option, the laxative suppository. I got it in but forgot to yell “Fire in the hole,” which was clearly a mistake based on what followed.
Within minutes, my intestines clenched so hard I momentarily left my body and floated among the Universal Kittens. They were adorable and full of wisdom. I think one of them tried to guide me toward the light, but I was too busy trying not to collapse dramatically on the bathroom floor.
After all that sweating and bargaining and trying to remember every prayer I learned as a child, I stepped on the scale.
Not one ounce lost.
Honestly, this feels personal.
Chris says I talk about poop too much, so do not tell him I wrote this.
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