Revelations

As a child, I was prone to headaches. This can be blamed on many things: the frequent exposure of my gifted-child brain to fluorescent lights, a diet high in Hostess treats and shameful stolen spoonfuls of Country Time Pink Lemonade powder, or perhaps an attempt from by my body to ease me gently into the life of head/back/neckaches, a sad destiny for the larger busted lady. Oh also I had really, really bad eyesight and spent my days from the age of 6 on squinting helplessly through thick, smeary glasses like that dumb kid from Jerry Maguire, but a girl. When I would go to my mom and say, "mom, I have a headache," the first question out of her mouth was not, "did you hit your head?" or "have you been drinking water?" or even "would you like a tylenol?" The first thing she would ask was, "well, do you have to poop?" Every. Time. And I would think about it, and sometimes I would have to poop, and sometimes I wouldn't, and we would go from there. Process of elimination. And so as I entered into adolescence and, reluctantly, adulthood, anytime I got a headache I would immediately wonder... do I have to poop? Totally having grown up with this horrible visual image of headaches being caused by having to poop SO badly that the toxins and waste are actually backed up into the cranium, I would on occasion dole out the same advice.
FRIEND: Man, my head hurts.
ME: (concerned) oh... do you have to poop?
FRIEND: No. I'm just hungover. Gross. Please don't ask me that.
So it's only recently that I have realized that this is just some weird little made up diagnosis of my mom's, stemming from god knows where. Maybe she just wanted any excuse to remind me to stay regular, or maybe she is secretly into scat. But I will go on record as saying, I think pooping can help headaches. Kind of. Or at least it doesn't make them worse. And regardless of the validity of her theories, it's a weird little special memory I will always have of my mom. Like the time when I was 8 and my dad walked into a telephone pole in Florida and almost knocked himself out and was too dazed to go out to dinner but my mom didn't want to leave him alone for a long period of time in case his brain hemorrhaged or something, so she went to McDonalds and bought like 15 cheeseburgers and she and I and my brother sat around cross legged on the floor of the Motel 6 and ate cheeseburgers and laughed at my dad moaning softly on the bed. He was OK, in the end.