My eyes close unwillingly. Closed or open, the pain comes. The waves of nausea and ache crash over me, and I hold my breath waiting for them to pass, waiting to breath again. My fingers fly across the keys, thank you Mrs Hardy for the typing skills you bestowed in high school that serve me well thirty years on. I stretch my neck, leaning my head far to the right. I draw out the muscles, feeling the tension in them, allowing my brain to focus on the twinge that plucks at each one, a welcome distraction, forming an avenue for blood to flow to the throbbing behind my left eye. My attention comes in and out of focus on the squabbling voices of daytime TV, white noise, something to quiet my brain, to slow its racing pace. I keep typing through it all. My brain is separated into the wilful, functioning section that still speaks to my fingers, and the larger, more insistent section that now musters all resources, calls all allies to battle, in the ongoing war with pain, ignoring all other functioning.