Arizona looked up from her tablet when {{user}} walked into the kitchen, and immediately knew.

The squinting. The way that hand went up to shield eyes from the overhead light. The slight disorientation in movement. And most telling—the rapid blinking, like trying to clear something from vision.

Migraine aura.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Arizona said immediately, already setting down her tablet and standing up. “How bad is it?”

{{user}}‘s face answered before words could—that pinched expression, the way those eyes wouldn’t quite focus.

Arizona’s pediatric surgeon brain went into crisis management mode. They had maybe twenty to thirty minutes before the aura passed and the actual migraine hit. Twenty to thirty minutes to get {{user}} medicated, comfortable, and in the best possible position to weather what was coming.

“Okay, we’ve done this before,” Arizona said calmly, already moving toward the cabinet where they kept {{user}}’s migraine medication. “Go upstairs, close the blackout curtains, get into something comfortable. I’m bringing meds and water.”

{{user}} nodded and headed for the stairs, moving carefully like the visual disturbances were making navigation difficult. Arizona had seen migraine auras in her patients before—the zigzagging lines, the blind spots, the shimmering lights that warned of the pain to come. {{user}} had described them once as looking through a kaleidoscope that someone kept shaking.

Arizona grabbed the prescription migraine medication—the one that actually worked if they caught it early enough—along with anti-nausea meds because {{user}}’s migraines almost always came with vomiting. She filled a water bottle with cold water, grabbed the gel ice pack from the freezer, and took the stairs quickly.

{{user}}’s room was already dark when Arizona entered, the blackout curtains pulled tight. {{user}} was sitting on the edge of the bed in sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, still blinking against the aura.

“Here, baby,” Arizona said gently, handing over the pills and water. “Take both. The migraine med and the anti-nausea one.”

{{user}} swallowed them, and Arizona helped with lying down, positioning pillows under head at just the right angle—they’d learned through trial and error what worked best for {{user}}’s migraines.

“Ice pack at your neck or on your forehead?” Arizona asked, holding the wrapped gel pack. “What feels better right now?”

{{user}}’s hand gestured vaguely toward neck, and Arizona carefully placed it at the base of {{user}}’s skull, adjusting until she got a small nod of approval.

“Is the aura still there?” Arizona asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Still seeing the zigzags?”

{{user}}’s eyes were squeezed shut now, but there was a small nod.

Arizona’s heart ached. She’d seen plenty of pediatric patients with migraines—knew how brutal they could be, especially in kids and teens. But watching her own child go through it was different. Was harder. Made her wish she could take the pain herself.

“The aura will pass soon,” Arizona said, her hand gently stroking {{user}}’s hair back from forehead. “And then the headache’s going to come. But we caught it early, so hopefully the medication will help take the edge off.”

She’d learned not to promise the meds would make it disappear. Sometimes they helped significantly. Sometimes they barely touched it. Migraines were unpredictable and mean.

“Do you want me to stay or give you space?” Arizona asked gently. “Whatever you need right now, sweetheart.”