When you’re a mom, some parenting moments never leave. This is certainly true for me, and one in particular stays. You see, I’m a mom with migraines, and this head-splitting disease impacts my life and my parenting. When my son was 3 years old, my migraines were daily, and mom + migraine was not a winning combination.
“I want to see her because I love her,” a tiny voice explained from the darkness.
“He really wants to see you,” my mom said apologetically.
I really wanted to see him, too.
For two days, I wanted to see my son, but the pain kept me immobile. If I could remove the red-hot waffle iron stuck to the side of my head and stop vomiting like I’ve been eating all the waffles my head has been making, I’d be able to be a mom to my three-and-a-half-year-old. However, my chronic condition is winning this round. Migraines always win.
Even though I’m one of 28 million women in the United States who have chronic migraines (15 or more migraines a month), I feel very much on my own. When I tell people that I’m a migraine sufferer, I’m met with tips like: Have you tried letting your husband rub your feet? Or my favorite— Have you tried drinking more water? I’d let my husband rub the insides of my eye sockets and dump water on my head if I thought it would help.
Many people don’t understand that my disease is just that—a neurological disease for which a cure has yet to be found. I’ve gone through a list of medicines and treatments, and I work with specialists, researching new procedures—if not for me then for my son. I’m on several different medications and dependent on my relief meds.
Moms are meant to power through anything, right? When my son was a newborn, and my migraines were on hiatus due to my high hormone levels, I once went seven days on only 2 1/2 hours of sleep a night—and then I made dinner for my husband, milked two of the cows, flew a mission to Mars, and was back in time to breastfeed. (Some of that might be exaggerated. We don’t have cows.)
Without a migraine, I can be the mom my son needs. With a migraine, I’m useless. My pain stops me from reaching full mom potential. In the midst of a full-blown attack, I lay in a dark room while my kid is mothered by others—his father, his grandparents, his babysitter, a friend. If my husband is unavailable, I have back-ups for my back-ups. I’m totally dependent on others, and I feel helpless. What kind of mother am I if I can’t be a mother to my child?
Yes, there are times I’ve had a migraine and also had to be a parent. I fear those times like I fear eating sushi from a gas station. (Alright, even more.) The pain worsens every moment I try to function. My son and I sit in my bed, and I lie curled around his body, praying he can watch TV until nap time, bedtime, or until another human arrives to rescue me. I can’t think a complete thought. Each minute feels like a day. I cherish every moment spent with my son, but it’s the worst kind of torture being a mom with a migraine. I worry and wonder how my health affects him.
“Mom, are you feeling better,” a small hand rubbed my arm.
“Not right now, but I will,” I reassured him.
I feel his head move close, and in the tiniest of whispers, I hear, “I know this is hard for you.”
“Yes it is,” I choked out, “I love you.”
And he’s off again.
His phrase I know this is hard for you stays with me during the rest of my episode. It doesn’t dull the pain of my migraine, but somehow I feel less alone in the darkness. Whoa. Where did he learn that?
Days later, when I emerge from the bedroom with one big migraine-hangover, I thank my son and tell him how loved his words made me feel when I was sick. I’m also curious where he heard that phrase. It’s so adult, and it’s not one of his Dad’s feel-better phrases. When I ask him, his response floors me: “I didn’t hear it anywhere. I just knew.”
My migraines make my life challenging and painful in ways that I never knew possible. Yet, amidst all this turmoil, there is a tiny ray of hope. It comes from the most unexpected place—my son. In a darkened room, my little guy has taught me more about my migraines than I’d ever known: Migraines don’t always win. Love does.
