Let me start off by saying … as one does when looking at modern art … “I’m not an expert, but I know what I like.” Same for medications and medical problems. I’m not expert, but I know when my friend is or is not in pain.

I have a wonderful buddy. I met her a million years ago, when we worked at Allied Graphic Arts, a company that produced catalogues for fancy department stores like Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, and Nordstrom’s.

Jeannie was the art coordinator, meaning that it was her job to put together ALL of the variables involved in presenting the final product: Photos, product descriptions, layouts, pagination, front and back covers, and artwork.

By comparison, my job was easy. I just had to unpack cartons containing merchandise – mostly bed linens and housewares – check them off a list, and get them to and from the studios to be photographed.

Jeannie and I shared a small space in the back bowels of our office, so remote from the rest of the company that our Vice President called it “Aida’s Tomb.” Essentially, Jeannie was my boss. But other than her having more responsibility than I did and working harder … who cared?

Those were the days of doing and dreaming. As to the “doing,” we did our jobs, earned our salary, and paid our bills. As to the dreaming … ah! We all wanted to be and do something else. Something BIG. Actress! Opera singer! Dancer! Dress designer! Film producer! Magazine publisher!

For me … I wanted to be a writer. I remember many and many a time when Jeannie and Bunny Bennet – also an art coordinator – would cover for me when I snuck out of the office to interview a police officer, a social worker, or a medical examiner for some article I was writing about the morgue, truancy, or runaway children.

Anyway … it was during those days of working with Jeannie in Aida’s Tomb that the two of us became friends. Or, as I like to say, “Blood Brothers.”

That was how it started.

Jeannie was already married to her successful journalist / artist husband Ed when we met. In time, I married Charlie, and our husbands – both New York City born and bred – clicked and became friends, too.

Time went on.

Life presented its successes, its heartbreaks, its catastrophes, its triumphs, and its picayune dramas of day-to-day life. Which was to be expected. A broken bone here. A heart palpitation there. A hospital stay. A diagnostic scare. A few months in rehab. And then home. Life just doing what it does.

And when life did what it did to Jeannie, she met every challenge like a Valkyrie. An Amazon. A Super Woman. A slim and pretty female with the soul of a tigress.

Until the Coming of the Migraines …

Imagine her standing in the shade of a single Conestoga wagon trying to cross the Sante Fe trail in the early 1800s. Other members of her wagon train have long since perished … drowned while attempting to cross raging rivers … or killed in Comanche raids. Only Jeannie, frazzled from the sun and parched from lack of water, but still willful and courageous, has survived.

Then she hears something and looks up. She turns to her left. To her right. Before her. Behind her. And suddenly, she realizes that she is surrounded by tens of thousands of Comanche warriors, arrows raised and aimed at her heart, with no one to help her, and nowhere else to go.

That is how I think of Jeannie’s migraines.

My old buddy … my “blood brother” … my pal. My co-inhabitant of Aida’s Tomb from days gone by. Now under a relentless and excruciating attack from which there is no relief. No escape. All pervading pain. Loss of control. No surcease of throbbing headaches. Feelings of being frail and helpless. Believing that she is about to die.

Okay. Let’s forget my Conestoga wagon metaphor for a while and return to reality. For the past few years, starting out with unpleasant attacks of vertigo, Jeannie has been plagued with terrible migraines. Like the brave soldier that she is, she tried everything: Prescription drugs. Exercises. MRIs. Brain scans. Botox. This, that, and then higher doses of these, thems, and those.

Nothing worked, and secretly, I began to think of my brave and beautiful buddy as an autumn leaf so frail and crumpled from being fiercely battered by wind and rain that the next breeze would blow her into nothingness.

And then … And then …in the most unscientific of ways, Jeannie was chatting with an acquaintance at a social gathering, they began to discuss migraines, and this comparative stranger said, “Have you tried Emgality? It worked for me.”

Jeannie went home, did some research, and discovered that Emgality is a pharmaceutical injectable manufactured by Eli Lilly and marketed as “Preventative Migraine Treatment.” She mentioned it to her primary physician; he had never heard of it. She mentioned it to her neurologist; he was less than enthusiastic.

She said, “Can we try it? We’ve tried everything else.”

And both said, “Sure.”

Fast forward ONE WEEK.

Jeannie’s headaches are gone. She no longer feels frail, helpless, vulnerable, or on the verge of dying. Her voice is strong. Her eyes are clear. She is back to being a Valkyrie. An Amazon. A Superwoman. And I am so happy for her that I want to share the wealth.

So, if any of you have a friend, a blood brother, a loved one, or a buddy who is suffering the way that Jeannie suffered … or even yourself … I want to be the stranger you meet at a party who seductively whispers into your ear the magic word: “Emgality!”

It works for some people. It doesn’t work for others.

But … maybe … just maybe, if you give it a chance, you can become a Valkyrie or a Hercules again. Like Jeannie,

And that would make me glad. Very glad, indeed.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit: www.shellyreuben.com