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Aaron’s night starts simple, dinner with the family and a quick trip for Advil before his son’s band concert. But what unfolds is a comedy of errors that turns a small headache into a full-blown odyssey. By the end, the story takes a turn that proves even the most frustrating nights can carry an unexpected lesson.
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The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
The clock was ticking. I had 60 minutes to take the family to dinner, run some errands, and make it to my son’s band concert.
But what I was really trying to get ahead of was a headache that was turning into a full-blown migraine. I know some of you can relate. I just needed some Advil and a little Tiger Balm on my neck.
What I didn’t realize was the comedy-of-errors journey I’d have to take just to get that Advil—and the unexpected lesson I’d learn at the end of it.
Take this seven-minute journey with me—right after the music.
The migraine started forming, moving from a dull ache to something much worse. I thought, I’m not going to enjoy dinner. I’m not going to enjoy the concert. This is going to be a disaster.
I’ve been through this before. I thought, Let me get ahead of it now.
Here’s the thing: I keep a bottle of ibuprofen on every level of my house. Not because I take it all the time, but because when I get a tension headache, I need to find it fast.
But it’s nowhere to be found. I’m running up and down the stairs, checking every room, and thinking—someone stole it. It’s gone.
So I decide: I’ll go to dinner first, then run errands and pick some up.
My daughter and I hop in one car because we have errands to run afterward, and Cori and the boys go in another. We all meet at the Mexican restaurant.
Dinner was incredible—but my head is pounding. If you’ve ever dealt with chronic pain, you know how much it can take over your attention.
I didn’t want that to happen, so as soon as we ate, I paid the bill and told my daughter, “We’ll see everyone at the band concert.”
The clock is ticking.
Here’s the plan: first, the drugstore for ibuprofen and water. Then another stop for her headphones—the ones I lost.
We walk into the drugstore. The bright fluorescent lights hit me like a laser. My eyes start to throb. I go straight to the medicine aisle—nothing. Completely out of ibuprofen.
I ask the cashier, “Do you have any in the back?”
She says, “Sorry, we’re all out.”
Apparently, a lot of people are having migraines today.
Okay. No problem. I tell my daughter with a smile, “Let’s go get your headphones.”
We head to the next store. As we walk in, the sky darkens—storm clouds rolling in.
We find the headphone section. Everything’s locked up. I press the red button to call for help. After a few minutes, an employee rushes over, apologizing. He unlocks the case, and my daughter smiles—she got her earbuds.
Then she says, “Don’t forget the ibuprofen and water.”
We find the medicine aisle—fully stocked this time. My prayers have been answered. But then we hit the line. Both checkout lines are long.
Ten minutes later, we’re finally through. I pay, grab the bag, and we rush out. Lightning flashes in the distance as we race toward the school.
It’s the most crowded band concert in the history of humanity. We park a mile away. It’s raining now.
As we walk, my daughter laughs, “You forgot the water.”
I freeze. She’s right. I’m holding the pill, but I can’t dry swallow.
I tell her, “No worries. We’ll find a water fountain inside.”
We start jogging. Just as we reach the entrance, she reaches up to grab my hand—
and knocks the pill right out of it.
We both watch it spin through the air in slow motion, like that wrench scene in A Christmas Story.
It lands perfectly in a puddle of muddy rainwater.
I stare at it and say, “You know, sometimes no matter how much you plan, no matter how prepared you are, the story of your day is still the story of your day.”
She laughs and says, “Dad, this is going to be a great story.”
I tell her, “It is. I’m going to tell it.”
But as we walked toward the door, I realized something deeper.
This wasn’t about the pill. This was about control.
I was so focused on preventing pain that I forgot to be present. I wasn’t living the story—I was trying to skip to the ending.
We finally walked in. I looked at my phone: 59 minutes. We made it with one minute to spare.
And as I watched my son perform in what turned out to be one of the best middle school band concerts ever, I realized—
this wasn’t The Migraine from Hell.
It was The Migraine from Heaven.
