A flash of nostalgia came over me as I picked up the yellow towel on the couch and hung it up. I remembered my nephew flinging it aside last night the moment he got out of the bath, his long hair dripping on his small, cold shoulders. I saw the same image two nights ago when we planted in his garden after his bath. He seems impervious to the cold and intent on getting dirty, too excited to put on a shirt before grabbing his small yellow hoe. We had meant to plant during the afternoon of course, but my sister, his mom, is a self proclaimed hater of the wind and the palm trees in Southern California have been extra vocal this week.
My head throbs now when I hold the yellow towel just as it did when I watched his dear shoulders guide the yellow hoe through a path in his garden. I don’t notice too much. It isn’t too bright or loud, and every day I am learning to be calmer and gentler with myself.
I am trying to be patient with my body, giving it the time and space it needs to heal, and making an effort to enjoy every moment spent with my family.
My shoulders were even smaller than my six-year-old-nephew’s are now when I experienced my first migraine attack. I was three years old and just recovering from a nasty bout with the chicken pox when I experienced excruciating nausea and head pain. To this day I remember not wanting to watch Beauty and the Beast because the television hurt my eyes and how that fact scared me. At that period in my life, like so many budding bookworms in the early 90s, it was a serious emergency if I was too sick to watch Belle tell off Gaston.
I Now Pronounce You Diagnosed
Once I vomited (my greatest fear at that young time) the pain subsided a bit and I was able to sleep, but the attacks were not over. I experienced two more in the following weeks which meant a trip to Dr. Dias, my favorite pediatrician, a gentle Indian man with soft hands and incredibly blue eyes.
I have heard my mother tell the story of my toddler migraine attacks to a several neurologists and doctors over the years, and she always includes the exchange:
Mom: Please don’t tell me she has migraines.
Dr. Dias: I’ll tell you these aren’t migraines, but they are migraines.
I now pronounce you diagnosed.
I don’t remember much about being three but most of it revolved around the back yard and my little sister and playing in the sprinklers. It’s easy as an adult to conjure up feelings of goodwill, love, and empathy alongside an image your toddler self. When you picture your young self ill or frightened the desire to comfort is strong and natural. But as we get older, thanks to society or nature or both, that desire fades and sacrificing our health for success, money, convenience, the happiness of others, fill-in-the-blank, is the norm. Whether you’re stuck inside with a chronic illness 23 hours a day or just doing what you need to do to make your day a little easier, each of us could benefit from looking in on that young self every once in a while.
[bctt tweet=”Thinking back to simpler sick days is a helpful reminder to take care of myself with love and empathy.” username=”CMLifeblog”]
Migraines are Genetic
Beauty and the Beast doesn’t hold the same charm over me at 26 as it did at 3, but dozens of tools have since taken its place. Living with a chronic illness is a such a tedious career of medications, specials diets, and symptoms. Thinking back to simpler sick days is a helpful reminder to take care of myself with love and empathy.
Remembering the migraine attacks of my youth helps me remember that migraine disease is genetic and that the true cause of the attacks lies deep in my cells and not in my food, thought processes, emotions, water intake, etc.
The image of my three year old self also reminds me to practice gratitude for the family and friends who have taken such wonderful care of me throughout the years and have made my life so rich. Even with migraines.
[bctt tweet=”Remembering the #migraine attacks of my youth helps me remember that migraine disease is genetic.” username=”CMLifeblog”]