It’s not far from the law school, and I’m sure that on a normal day I could drive there from memory, but this isn’t a normal day, so I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks. My thoughts feel foggy and disjointed, and with my vision out of whack, I could easily miss a turn.

With both hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a series of deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. Once I feel somewhat steadier, I start gingerly rolling out of the parking lot. Thankfully, it’s the middle of the day so there isn’t as much traffic on the road as there normally is, and I make it to the doctor’s office in good time.

By the time I find a spot outside and shuffle through the sliding glass doors of large medical office, my head is throbbing mercilessly and I’m starting to get really worried. I check in with the receptionist I spoke to on the phone, each word sending fresh waves of pain through my skull.

She passes me a clipboard with a stack of intake forms, and I take it with a wince. Even in my condition, I know there’s no escaping medical paperwork.

“Take your time,” she says with an empathetic smile.

I squint at the forms, my vision swimming as I struggle to complete the basic information. My handwriting is barely legible, but I manage to get through the essential parts—name, birthdate, insurance, and symptoms—before handing it back.

She reviews what I’ve written, then gets up to walk me over to a seat. As I settle into it, she rests a hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Singh will be able to see you soon.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, cradling my head in both hands.

It feels like someone’s trying to split it in half like a melon from the inside out, and the little halos in my vision are so big now that I can barely see my feet on the ground in front of me. Time inches forward as I wait, until finally a nurse comes out to take me into the back. She gets me settled in an exam room, takes my vitals and asks me a few basic questions, and then leaves.

A doctor with a neatly trimmed beard comes in a few moments later, taking a seat on a rolling stool.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Dunaway. I’m Dr. Singh,” he introduces himself as he rolls over to gently shake my hand. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” I answer, and he offers a sympathetic grimace.

“I can see that. Can you tell me about your symptoms?”

I describe the pain in my head and the weird things I’m seeing in my vision, and he listens attentively, his brow furrowing slightly as I speak.