I Ship Mattress Pads Like They're Postcards

And other embarrassing confessions of traveling with chronic pain

Spotted in Denver: The new Oops, My Brain mascot. Comment with your name ideas for this dapper fellow.

Hey friends, It’s been a while since I’ve posted an update. I could blame the delay on the fact that I’ve been traveling a lot lately, though the truth is that, since my chronic migraines went into remission, I’ve had trouble knowing what to write here, and how to write about it. I’m very much in the process of recovery in the sense that I’m neither completely sick nor entirely well and I suddenly feel as if I have nothing to say that would be of use to anyone. I hope you’ll be patient with me as I figure out how to find my voice amidst the whiplash that is my life these days. I’m so grateful to have each and every one of you here.

Though I have been traveling a lot lately. I’m writing this post while flying to Denver, on Southwest Airlines. Southwest is, like me, transitioning from the old to the new, though for Southwest, this isn’t an improvement. They will be doing assigned seating by the end of this month, and they are already charging $35 for a checked bag. They’re attempting to soften this one-two-punch-in-progress by offering free wi-fi, but I’m not fooled. Also, the guy in front of me is farting. A lot.

The last time I visited Denver, my hometown and the fast-casual capital of the world, was in 2022, shortly after a severe relapse of my chronic migraines rendered me barely able to leave the house. What a bad time to choose to travel, you may be thinking, and you would be right. On that particular Denver trip, which involved visiting a family member in the hospital, I ended up visiting the emergency room myself, with a terrible migraine.

At around this same time, I visited a friend in New Mexico who’d just had twins, AND my husband Cory and I went on a vacation to Florida. In New Mexico, I spent much of the trip hiding in a hotel. As much as I wanted to be helpful, my overtaxed nervous system recoiled at the prospect of spending that much time around anyone, especially two young babies. In Florida, Cory and I signed up for a snorkeling excursion, only to discover that I was unable to leave the boat. I had, at some point, developed a fear of swimming in the open ocean. Instead of exploring the reef with Cory, I sat alone in a boat, wilting beneath the headache-inducing sun.

The packing situation was also, frankly, ludicrous. Massaging devices, heated blankets, ice packs, muscle creams, white noise machines, bottles of horse pills...the list goes on. And these were in addition to the two largest items I have on every trip: my fancy bed pillow and a foam mattress pad. The pad was because I developed mysterious leg pain shortly after developing migraines, which demanded I sleep on at least two inches of foam at all times. I packed the pillow in those space bags where you suck all of the air out, and a foam pad, too, when I could fit one. When I couldn’t, I shipped one to my destination. And either way, I needed an entire large suitcase for nothing but chronic pain “accessories.” (The leg pain went away when my chronic migraines went into remission, in case you were curious.)

Yet despite the many difficulties and disasters that went along with traveling, I traveled more while in chronic pain than I did in the years leading up to it. I have always loved seeing new places, but what I came to love even more was the possibility of momentarily escaping the hell I’d found myself in. Other chronic pain sufferers I knew said that traveling often helped them—less stress, new environment, etc. I was willing to go anywhere and do anything if it meant I could access a few hours that felt enjoyable, or even just normal. So I kept traveling, hoping that one day, it would feel worth it. One time, it sort of did. Most of the other times, it didn’t.

Now that my chronic migraines have gone into remission, meaning that I’m not in pain all of the time, I am more capable of both traveling and enjoying myself while traveling than I was even just a year ago. So, one of the first things my husband Cory and I did after I started feeling better was plan a European vacation. Having spent much of our twenties and early thirties dealing with my chronic pain, we’d missed out on this privileged young couple right-of-passage, and besides, it felt like a great way to celebrate my remission, despite the odd anxiety around our plans that whirred like a too-loud hotel air conditioner as we booked plane and train tickets.

The trip was to be over three weeks long, which was longer than I’d ever been away from home and the longest I’d gone without acupuncture—a treatment which I, theoretically, didn’t need anymore. But I hadn’t yet tested this theory. We’d also decided not to check any bags, which meant no bed pillow, no mattress pad, and only the most essential of my many “essential” accessories.

I wanted to go, but I was also terrified of us arriving to Europe, only for me to feel miserable in a place that was supposed to be fun. I had, in other words, travel-traumatized myself into a severe case of economy-class, no-extra-legroom, crying-baby-across-the-aisle travel-phobia.

This is a photo of us in the English countryside, four days into our trip. Things didn’t go 100% perfectly—travel never does, unless if you’re rich enough to have a private jet and a butler. The few things that did go wrong were ordinary things, like realizing while on our way to Tirano that the hotel we’d book was actually in Turin (Torino in Italian), or our stomachs going into mourning over the severe lack of vegetables in most restaurants. If you’re considering traveling to Europe, keep in mind that although the food over there is both tastier and healthier, Europeans seem to have no idea what a salad is.

But: I had fun.

This trip to Denver (and then on to New York, for my last MFA residency) is the first solo trip I’ve taken since going into remission. I packed only a carry-on and a backpack, though both are bursting at the seams. And as Cory drove me to the airport, I felt the familiar nervousness settling in. I’d not been feeling great leading up to the trip—my body’s way of experiencing anticipatory anxiety—and as we neared the terminal, the memory of going to the ER the last time I went to Denver came rushing back.

I know I am capable of enjoying this trip. It’s easy-peasy compared to flying halfway around the world. But even still, I struggle to believe I am, just as I struggle to believe I can tolerate computer screens as I sit here typing on my laptop, experiencing no pain.

As I think on it, I realize this challenge isn’t isolated to certain situations in my life. The struggle to believe I can do things that I couldn’t do before is my life. Each new day presents me with a situation that I would have found difficult or even impossible to manage while in chronic pain, and each time I need to decide, Am I ready to try this again?

Sometimes the answer to that question is yes. Other times, it’s no. But most of the time, it’s somewhere in between. Like right now, as I gear up for a couple of flights, many nights spent in uncomfortable hotel rooms, and more socializing than I’ve done in the entire past year combined: Am I ready to try this again?

No, not really. But I’m going to anyway. Because I lost six years to chronic pain, and what I am ready to do is start living. 🧠