When I was sixteen and a sophomore, a very nice boy asked me to the Junior/Senior Prom. Upperclassmen often invited sophomores to accompany them. I chose a neutral colored, tea length dress covered with lace and primped with painstaking care to create the perfect look for the occasion. When my date arrived, I hardly contained myself. The fantasies I conjured before his arrival sparkled with optimism and excitement.

In the mid-eighties, prom festivities included a banquet and dance. After years of experience and some hindsight, I’m certain the food incited my dismal evening.

After our rushed meal, a pain developed on the right side of my head and my energy level plummeted. At one point, I stood at the edge of the dance floor and watched the crowd. Music pulsed and lights flashed but the glitter and excitement were absent. Ever increasing pain urged me to go home and crawl into bed. Sixteen year olds don’t abandon social events without dire circumstances. A desire to leave the prom confused me.

The rest of the evening is rather hazy, but because my actions instigated such trauma, I’ll never completely forget what transpired. My date found me sitting alone and remarked on my quiet behavior. I told him my head hurt and asked him to take me home. He was disappointed but agreed. I knew he could return to the dance and probably have more fun without me.

I wanted him understand my condition had nothing to do with him. I described how intense the pain gets and how my stomach rebels. It was rather surreal to sit in a pick-up truck, dressed in formal wear and talk about throwing up. It happened that way.

He walked me to the front door; I apologized, thanked him for asking me and entered the house. I wanted to get to bed; my head pounded. The memory ends there. I disappointed my companion and myself.

You may ask yourself what is so awful about that. In fact, as I read over the words I’ve written, it doesn’t sound bad. The actual event isn’t the biggest disappointment of the evening. The repercussions, however, left a scar.

When I returned to school the next week, I received my first lesson in humiliation. To my horror, the lack of a goodnight kiss offended my escort. It’s understandable. Most teenage boys dream of getting lucky on prom night and failing to receive even one kiss from your date is devastating. However, my date, the boy I believed so sweet, informed everyone that I told him I couldn’t kiss him goodnight because I thought I would throw up.

Shock slapped me in the face, followed quickly by embarrassment. When the story made its way back to me, it sounded like I treated him horribly on purpose. My peers thought I used this boy to get a date to the prom, a coveted invitation in the minds of most teenage girls, only to rebuff him after I accomplished my goal.

Nothing can change the events of that night; the resulting image the events cast, have long ago faded along with other high school memories. The migraines have remained. In fact, they’ve increased in intensity and duration. Had I known a spice in the food I ate that night triggered headaches, I would have avoided the fare.

I now consider that evening my initiation into the world of migraineurs and it made me aware how very little understanding others have of our very real physical ailment. I still leave events unexpectedly and miss special occasions altogether because I’m a slave to migraines. What’s the best I can hope for? Understanding from my friends and family, something I failed to receive that long ago night.