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Echoes of past hammers


I remember as a child having my dad bring me home from school because I was sick. He had a work schedule that seemed to work with being home for us kids, though probably not with as much sleep as he'd like or wanted.

One afternoon of being home sick is particularly vivid, as Dad had brought me home because I couldn't see: I had a migraine, with the auras, and it was a doozy. He actually hadn't been working the night shift that day, and hence sleeping when the school called. Instead, he had been working on the upstairs bedrooms, refinishing the attic to make a couple more bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.

After picking me up from school, he plunked me in his bed, shut the door, and went back upstairs to continue working on the bathroom.

The bathroom.

The bathroom, which was on the other side of a pillow, through the door, down the hall, up the stairs, around the corner and through another door.

And every hammer hit on a nail was a BOOM through my skull, the sunlight piercing my eyes through clenched lids and, yes, that pillow.

I remember calling for Dad, and asking him to stop hammering. Pleeeeeeeeease?

He did.

Now, fast forward to today, two days after one of the worst migraines I've had in a long time, a mere 36 hours after the ebb of the day long blindness, my vision restored until the next wave. I'm reminded again of the memory of that migraine years ago, listening to Kris' practicing thrum through my head, bouncing between ears before finally leaving.

I let Kris practice. If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I won't notice the constructive interference happening in my head...