It starts as a dull throb, just a whisper of discomfort. After battling so many, these headaches have become an unwelcome yet familiar foe. I keep ibuprofen stashed everywhere – in the kitchen, my nightstand, the bathroom, my purse, and even the car. My goal is to catch that headache before it escalates, but sometimes the medicine isn’t handy, or it simply doesn’t work. That’s when the migraine strikes.
When I sense it coming on, I rush home, often cutting short my kids’ playdates or outings with little explanation. Talking is painful, and I try to minimize any confrontation. I toss some snacks in the back seat and hustle us home, a frantic race against the pain.
I’m fortunate that my partner, Tom, can usually take sick leave if I’m incapacitated. If the migraine kicks in after lunch, I hate to bother him, so I plop the kids in front of the TV with a mountain of snacks until he gets home. I indulge them with the shows I usually restrict and scatter toys around the living room. I lock the bathroom door to prevent any unsanitary adventures and retreat to my sanctuary—my room.
All this is done while I wear sunglasses, sometimes shutting my eyes to navigate the tasks without visuals. I find myself snapping at my kids, knowing it hurts more than just talking. But shouting is quicker, and when the pain intensifies, I need to cut off any discussions about snacks or toys before they escalate.
In these moments, my instincts kick in, and I shift into survival mode. I frantically prepare for hours of pain, checking on diaper needs and guiding bathroom breaks, praying for minimal mess. Cleaning is off the table right now.
As I curl up in bed, I bury my head under a pillow to block out any light. I can’t focus on TV, reading, or even podcasts. All I can do is endure the sensation of an elephant stampede on my skull. My migraine medication is saved for when Tom gets home; anything stronger than ibuprofen makes me feel worse before it gets better, and I’m trying to avoid that.
Despite my earlier efforts to maintain quiet, the outside world still intrudes. Kids tend to be persistent. I’m sometimes grateful when my 4-year-old, Max, shows empathy and wishes me well, only to be reminded of his age when he returns moments later with a toy doctor kit, trying to medicate me with a plastic otoscope.
Bribery becomes my best friend—“You can use my phone, play on the computer, and order whatever you want on Amazon.” At this stage, my kids can do just about anything as long as it keeps the noise level down until Tom arrives.
When he finally walks through the door, I either manage a weak request for my medication or wave him away, desperate for silence. If I’m lucky enough to drift off into sleep during a severe migraine, I need to wake up pain-free. Otherwise, I might find myself awake in the middle of the night, grappling with the severity of the pain and contemplating a trip to the hospital.
Choosing to drive myself or needing to wake a friend to watch the kids while Tom takes me is a dilemma that weighs heavily on me. Parenthood doesn’t pause for migraines.
I’ve explored every treatment imaginable, from holistic remedies to scientific approaches. After months of physical therapy for neck issues that trigger my migraines, I’ve been told that I’ll just have to manage them. I practice exercises and maintain good posture, but the unpredictability remains. As I prepare for family outings, I can only hope to escape that initial warning headache, filled with dread.
Parenting while managing migraines is undeniably tough. If you resonate with this experience, know that you’re not alone in this struggle. You deserve to prioritize your needs and push through without guilt.
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Summary
Migraines can complicate parenting, requiring quick adjustments, patience, and resourcefulness. Balancing personal health with parenting responsibilities is a challenge many face. If you relate to this struggle, remember you’re not alone and it’s okay to prioritize your well-being.