Midlife migraines
‘I’ll do anything to find a cure’
Ihave suffered with migraines for four years. The first one crept up on me as I was feeding my six-week-old Matilda in the middle of the night. As she nuzzled contentedly, a sharp, jabbing pain hooked over my eye, through my jaw and onto my temple, before slamming its way into the entire right side of my head. I somehow settled my newborn back into her crib, staggered to the bathroom and threw up before passing out on the cold, tile floor.
My husband, lugging me into bed, tried to reassure me. “It’ll just be a strange side effect from the epidural or having an emergency C-section, and the extreme tiredness,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” And 12 hours later I was. But the same thing happened again the next month. And the month after. Soon migraines became a frequent visitor; an angry, dark monster that snuck up on me on birthdays, holidays, in important meetings or at the gym.
In 2017, as the headaches were making me increasingly upset and with no obvious medical issue behind them – an MRI scan, blood tests, and urine samples all came back normal – my doctor and I decided they were most likely caused by fluctuating hormones around my menstrual cycle. Two thirds of migraine sufferers are women, and hormones are believed to be the major trigger, so this made sense. In September, I started taking Daysee (also known as Seasonique), a three-month contraceptive pill commonly prescribed to women with menstrual migraine. The philosophy is that removing the dramatic oestrogen highs and lows from the 26-day (not so) merry-goround my body was enduring, would quieten the root cause of my pain.
I could have cried with excitement as I picked up the prescription.
After two years of trying Sumatriptan (which caused hangover symptoms as bad as the migraines themselves), Topiramate (which, as warned by my doctor, made me feel stupid; unable to conjure words and phrases, which isn’t great for a writer) and washing back multiple 800mg tablets of Ibuprofen, I thought we’d found the magic cure.
Instead, I bled heavily for 10 of the 12 weeks, gained 10lb, felt lethargic and still endured headaches. I threw my next prescription away.
I’d also tried eliminating foods recognised as likely triggers. I followed the strict Whole30 – an elimination diet that forbids dairy, wheat, booze and sugar – and endured a month without my beloved morning coffee. It made me feel less sluggish and more energetic, but the vice-like grip on my brain persisted.
Ditching alcohol and coffee didn’t have any effect at all; good or bad. As 2018 dawned, I decided that I needed a new system to tackle my pain. A friend told me that her new year’s resolution was about “inclusion not exclusion” and it gave me an idea: what could I add to my daily diet and routine to make me feel better?
I canvassed for ideas on Facebook, asking friends for success stories. Some might have tried something I hadn’t heard of, I reasoned.
It turned out that a few people had, and then a few more – in the end, 169 people posted links, anecdotes and tips; with more contacting me by text, email, or pulling me to one side when I picked my kids up from school.
I had unwittingly unleashed a new community – a migraine mafia – all desperate to share their anguish, as well as their healing stories.
People just seemed grateful that the ghastliness of a life with headaches was being acknowledged. We sufferers are often overlooked. “Unless its fallen off, an aspirin should do it”, an aunt used to tell me. How lovely, then, for a society to spring up in solidarity. But could I really crowdsource a cure?
I started to jot ideas down. Some things I’d heard of, but multiple friends validated them. Others were new – eating a banana a day, having wisdom teeth extracted, adding turmeric to meals, sleeping propped up, taking daily baths in magnesium salt flakes.
My husband returned that night to a hive of activity and a plan to make me better: a pantry filled with turmeric and almonds, a bowl of bananas on the countertop next to bottles of feverfew,
‘Nothing is too dramatic. I’d have been first in line for the medicine man’
magnesium, coenzyme Q10, butterbur, vitamin B-2, and sachets of electrolytes; and a diary filled with appointments for acupuncture, cupping, to see my dentist and meet with a neurologist.
On our bathroom shelf was a huge bag of magnesium salt, and bottles of lavender and peppermint essential oils. I’d also downloaded the Headspace mediation app on my phone, which offers sequences specifically for pain management.
“Botox? You’re not going to end up looking like a Kardashian, are you?” said my husband, perusing my long list of suggestions. “It’s a bit of dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Nothing is too dramatic,” I replied, enthused. “If I’d been alive a thousand years ago, I’d have been first in line for the medicine man who had a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other.”
That shut him up.
Besides, looking like a Kardashian would be a vast improvement on the Phantom of the Opera appearance I’d sported for the last four years, crawling into dark spaces, masking the right side of my head with a pale hand. But I put Botox down as a last resort. I’d rather add nutrients than chemicals, given the choice.
A week later the results from a saliva test I’d taken with nutritionist Kate Llewellyn-waters – who fine-tunes her What If Plan (thewhatifplan.co.uk) to the individual concerns of her patients using DNA analysis – were in.
“Your gene type means it is important for you to reduce exposure to dietary and environmental pro-carcinogens such as smoking, amines and nitrates, which could cause reactions such as headaches, and to increase detoxifying vegetables such as broccoli, kale and garlic,” she told me. “Also, up your daily intake of vitamins A, C and E. Migraine triggers are associated with oxidative stress, which can be eased by a diet rich with antioxidants.” I added her suggestions to my weekly meal plan.
I am by nature impatient, anxious for results – which probably doesn’t help my migraines – but I have been told repeatedly that these cures take time to come to fruition, sometimes even a couple of months – so unfortunately I can’t give you a happy ending just yet.
As I write, I am coming out from under a two-day cloud, during which I flinched at the noise of running a salty bath, and felt anything but ethereal in the yoga class I’d been assured would help. But I’m in this for the long haul.
Wish me luck.