It was one of those horrible, 3-day, intractable headaches I used to fall victim to. The dull, pulsing pain that arrives one night and takes control, making it so hard to crawl out of bed each morning and drag yourself through the day.
But -- this one time -- I was able to slip the grip of the crippling pain completely and nearly instantaneously. I wish I had a neuroscientist or pain expert to explain how it happened, but here's the story.
The headache couldn't have struck at a worse time. It was the day of the first dress rehearsal of a production of the musical "Li'l Abner," which I was directing at a school where I ran a volunteer, after-school children's theater program.
I was the chief wrangler of some 60 excited sixth, seventh, and eighth graders, who at the moment were running around the auditorium like crazed rodeo clowns.
We were three rehearsals away from opening night, and this was the first time they had their costumes: Abner and his lovable cartoon friends dressed hillbilly style in bright shirts, jeans patched with big yellow and orange squares of fabric, polka-dotted skirts, straw hats, and red bandannas; the villains from the government in dark suits and ties; and the Yokumberry tonic researchers in mad-scientist wigs and long, floppy lab coats.
And I was sinking fast under the mother of all headaches, wondering how I was ever going to survive the next 3 hours, never mind push this show into shape in 3 days.
With the help of some moms who had offered to assist backstage, I managed to gather the kids around me and started taking attendance. They were wriggling and giggling, poking each other, and admiring each other's costumes.
"Abner? . . . Daisy? . . . Mammy and Pappy?" (Oh, my head hurts!) "Shhhh," I warned them.
"Moonbeam? . . . Marryin' Sam? Quiet!
"Lonesome Polecat? . . . QUIET DOWN! . . . Lonesome Polecat?
"WHERE IS LONESOME POLECAT???!!!" And with that, I totally snapped.
I started to bellow and went on screaming at the top of my lungs for 2 minutes nonstop. What I said I have no recollection of, but the topics probably included: being on time for rehearsals, not talking when the director is talking, being polite, respecting your elders, paying attention, being serious -- and the dire consequences that would befall those assembled if I had to raise my voice like this again.
I'm sure I had no idea what those consequences would be. But as the kids watched their kindly director transform before their eyes into a howling, wild-eyed, red-faced lunatic, they must have feared the worst: cancellation of the show, mass expulsion from school for the lot of them, and most likely homicide for the kid playing Lonesome Polecat.
Because when it was over, all stood in shocked and solemn silence -- with no smirks or eye rolling even -- which, considering the nature of the age group, was proof of a pretty impressive display of fit-throwing on my part.
Panting, I sucked in enough air to snarl in the most threatening voice I could muster:
"Now, we're going to start in ONE MINUTE -- so get in your places!"
Without a word, the cast and crew hurried backstage. I stalked to the front row where I flopped down with my big director's script in my lap.
Holy mackerel! I had never done anything like that before. And there are adults here. But I was too exhausted to even be embarrassed about it. I'll apologize later as needed. For now, the show must go on! I waited for the final seconds to tick down.
Two of the more responsible eighth-grade girls came running across the auditorium from the direction of the bathrooms with Lonesome Polecat in tow. They scooted behind the curtain.
All right.
"House lights," I growled.
The auditorium went black. Not a peep from the kids on stage behind the curtain. That was a good sign.
"Curtain," I barked.
The curtain jerked open along its track in squeaky spasms. The beam from the big follow-spotlight, borrowed from the high school, blasted the ceiling, dropped, veered frantically around the stage, and finally located and locked in on Mammy Yokum.
I nodded grimly to the orchestra -- the church organist on piano, an eighth grader with drums, and someone's older sister who doubled as tambourine player and prompter. They began the opening number, "It's a Typical Day in Dogpatch, U.S.A."
And the denizens of Dogpatch -- Li'l Abner, Daisy Mae, Earthquake McGoon, and the rest -- looked straight out at the imaginary audience with big smiles, just as I had told them to, and burst into song.
Hmm. Not bad, actually. They really looked sweet in those costumes. The parents did a nice job. And the kids sounded pretty good, too.
This show was going to be OK. I leaned back in my seat.
And about a minute into the song about the joys of life in Dogpatch, I noticed . . .
My headache! It was completely gone.
It was a miracle! An anticipated 3 days of agony had been blasted away in a fireball of emotion.
Did screaming and yelling and going berserk somehow relax the muscles, or release endorphins, or somehow make the pain receptors stop recepting? At any rate, all was well with the world. Thank goodness. I had 3 days to go to showtime, and there was a lot of work to do.
I never tried this again. And, in truth, I wouldn't recommend the therapy. But if anyone can explain what happened, I'd be interested in knowing.
MED-P
------------------------- *Leave a comments, questions or even a suggestions below this post. Your expressions are always welcomed.
 |
| Headache |
It was one of those horrible, 3-day, intractable headaches I used to fall victim to. The dull, pulsing pain that arrives one night and takes control, making it so hard to crawl out of bed each morning and drag yourself through the day.
But -- this one time -- I was able to slip the grip of the crippling pain completely and nearly instantaneously. I wish I had a neuroscientist or pain expert to explain how it happened, but here's the story.
The headache couldn't have struck at a worse time. It was the day of the first dress rehearsal of a production of the musical "Li'l Abner," which I was directing at a school where I ran a volunteer, after-school children's theater program.
I was the chief wrangler of some 60 excited sixth, seventh, and eighth graders, who at the moment were running around the auditorium like crazed rodeo clowns.
We were three rehearsals away from opening night, and this was the first time they had their costumes: Abner and his lovable cartoon friends dressed hillbilly style in bright shirts, jeans patched with big yellow and orange squares of fabric, polka-dotted skirts, straw hats, and red bandannas; the villains from the government in dark suits and ties; and the Yokumberry tonic researchers in mad-scientist wigs and long, floppy lab coats.
And I was sinking fast under the mother of all headaches, wondering how I was ever going to survive the next 3 hours, never mind push this show into shape in 3 days.
With the help of some moms who had offered to assist backstage, I managed to gather the kids around me and started taking attendance. They were wriggling and giggling, poking each other, and admiring each other's costumes.
"Abner? . . . Daisy? . . . Mammy and Pappy?" (Oh, my head hurts!) "Shhhh," I warned them.
"Moonbeam? . . . Marryin' Sam? Quiet!
"Lonesome Polecat? . . . QUIET DOWN! . . . Lonesome Polecat?
"WHERE IS LONESOME POLECAT???!!!" And with that, I totally snapped.
I started to bellow and went on screaming at the top of my lungs for 2 minutes nonstop. What I said I have no recollection of, but the topics probably included: being on time for rehearsals, not talking when the director is talking, being polite, respecting your elders, paying attention, being serious -- and the dire consequences that would befall those assembled if I had to raise my voice like this again.
I'm sure I had no idea what those consequences would be. But as the kids watched their kindly director transform before their eyes into a howling, wild-eyed, red-faced lunatic, they must have feared the worst: cancellation of the show, mass expulsion from school for the lot of them, and most likely homicide for the kid playing Lonesome Polecat.
Because when it was over, all stood in shocked and solemn silence -- with no smirks or eye rolling even -- which, considering the nature of the age group, was proof of a pretty impressive display of fit-throwing on my part.
Panting, I sucked in enough air to snarl in the most threatening voice I could muster:
"Now, we're going to start in ONE MINUTE -- so get in your places!"
Without a word, the cast and crew hurried backstage. I stalked to the front row where I flopped down with my big director's script in my lap.
Holy mackerel! I had never done anything like that before. And there are adults here. But I was too exhausted to even be embarrassed about it. I'll apologize later as needed. For now, the show must go on! I waited for the final seconds to tick down.
Two of the more responsible eighth-grade girls came running across the auditorium from the direction of the bathrooms with Lonesome Polecat in tow. They scooted behind the curtain.
All right.
"House lights," I growled.
The auditorium went black. Not a peep from the kids on stage behind the curtain. That was a good sign.
"Curtain," I barked.
The curtain jerked open along its track in squeaky spasms. The beam from the big follow-spotlight, borrowed from the high school, blasted the ceiling, dropped, veered frantically around the stage, and finally located and locked in on Mammy Yokum.
I nodded grimly to the orchestra -- the church organist on piano, an eighth grader with drums, and someone's older sister who doubled as tambourine player and prompter. They began the opening number, "It's a Typical Day in Dogpatch, U.S.A."
And the denizens of Dogpatch -- Li'l Abner, Daisy Mae, Earthquake McGoon, and the rest -- looked straight out at the imaginary audience with big smiles, just as I had told them to, and burst into song.
Hmm. Not bad, actually. They really looked sweet in those costumes. The parents did a nice job. And the kids sounded pretty good, too.
This show was going to be OK. I leaned back in my seat.
And about a minute into the song about the joys of life in Dogpatch, I noticed . . .
My headache! It was completely gone.
It was a miracle! An anticipated 3 days of agony had been blasted away in a fireball of emotion.
Did screaming and yelling and going berserk somehow relax the muscles, or release endorphins, or somehow make the pain receptors stop recepting? At any rate, all was well with the world. Thank goodness. I had 3 days to go to showtime, and there was a lot of work to do.
I never tried this again. And, in truth, I wouldn't recommend the therapy. But if anyone can explain what happened, I'd be interested in knowing.
MED-P
------------------------- *Leave a comments, questions or even a suggestions below this post. Your expressions are always welcomed.
0 comments:
Post a Comment