“What doesn’t trigger a migraine for you?” my friend says, a slight edge to her voice.
Her words sting, and I flinch. I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me. I tell myself this as she laughs, and after a bit, I join her which is my programmed response for not creating conflict.
Now is not the time to confront her, I tell myself. We’re on vacation in the Galapagos Islands. We were discussing our hike tomorrow and the best time to go. I said the forecast predicts a hot afternoon, and heat is one of my migraine triggers. I know she knows this. Perhaps this is why she blurted out the comment.
Like, okay, Sarah, I don’t need you to tell me again.
Nobody likes a Negative Nancy, especially on vacation. I’m not sure if that’s what I am when I mention my concerns about triggering a migraine, but I can’t help feeling like this is how I’m perceived. So I brush aside my friend’s hurtful dismissal and plaster on a bright smile.
We agree early morning is best and move on to our agenda for the day. We decide on kayaking. I breathe a sigh of relief when the tension eases, and we revert back to our easy banter. Our perfect vacation continues.
Maybe that’s part of the problem. To expect perfection on a trip—especially an international destination—is setting yourself up for disappointment. Everyone says to prepare for things like jet lag, lost luggage, and flight delays, yet maybe the most important reminder is to give each other grace, especially ourselves. It’s not something that occurs to me until it’s too late. When I’m already beating myself up for ruining the fun or bringing the energy of the group down.
I tell myself that I’m being overly sensitive. That my friend wants to be there for me when I’m in pain. But it’s hard to convince myself of this when a trip I had taken years ago constantly bubbles up from my subconscious like sewage from a clogged pipe. It marked the beginning of my chronic migraine spiral into self-doubt, shame, and the blame game.
It had been over a decade ago. A college friend and I went to a music festival together. I’ll call this friend Jody. Back then, my migraines weren’t as frequent as they are now. I hadn’t considered myself a “chronic migraine sufferer.” It was occasional, maybe one every few months but nothing my migraine meds couldn’t handle.
Our first of three days at the festival was off to a good start. We danced to Ellie Goulding and Outkast. We ate overpriced food from food trucks and sipped white wine. We wandered around the festival grounds, soaking it all in. By the time we staggered back to our hotel that night, we were exhausted but eagerly anticipating doing it all over again the next day.
But my head had other plans. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing right temple. Like an ice pick was stabbing into my right eyeball over and over.
Stab, stab, stab.
Back then, I wasn’t aware of all my triggers, but I knew enough to hydrate plenty and limit my alcohol to one glass of white wine, which is exactly what I had done.
I’ll just take my migraine meds, I thought. Thankfully, I brought several pills. I told Jody to go to the festival without me. I’ll meet her there later once I felt better.
“See you soon!” she called out before leaving me alone in our room where I waited for my meds to kick in.
Jody returned at lunchtime to find me still in bed. The room bathed in darkness. She flicked the light on, and I blinked at her, moaning.
“You still have a migraine?” She gaped at me in disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled automatically.
“Feel better.” She went back to the festival, and I sensed her annoyance.
I stayed in bed all day, miserable and confused. My meds had never failed me before. Something was wrong. I called my neurologist, but since it was a weekend, I could only leave a message. I didn’t know what I wanted him to do anyway. Prescribe something stronger? Something that will put me in a coma so I didn’t have to feel my head ever again?
The next day, my migraine was gone. I almost sobbed from relief. I wouldn’t miss the last day of the festival.
“I’m back, baby,” I yelped with delight.
“Woot!” Jody linked her arm in mine and off we went to the shuttle pickup.
Once we arrived at the festival and made our way toward the music, my fear of letting Jody down yesterday dissipated. I’d make it up to her today. We’d have an amazing time and she’d forget all about my migraine. We’d dance and try new food trucks. I would steer clear of alcohol.
But as we neared the electronic dance music tent, the pain I thought I had finally vanquished returned. The ice pick roared back with a vengeance. Like someone was methodically chipping away into the right side of my head.
Whack, whack, whack.
I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes. My head throbbed in sync with the music’s pulsing bass.
“What’s wrong?” Jody asked.
No, this can’t be happening.
I dug in my bag frantically for my migraine pills and with shaking hands, pulled out the small orange bottle. Inside rattled one pill. One sad little pill.
I dry swallowed it as Jody waited, impatient. When she saw my stricken face, she knew.
“Again?” She exhaled and maybe said something else, but the blaring horn in my head tuned her out. Nausea coursed through me, and I feared I may not even be able to find my way back to the hotel.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed as I staggered away, desperate to climb back onto the shuttle.
By the time I found my way back to my hotel room, I was in tears. I didn’t know if it was from the excruciating pain or failing my friend. Probably both.
When Jody returned to the hotel later that evening, my migraine had finally subsided. I apologized again for abandoning her.
“It’s okay,” she said. But her tone was clipped.
Then again, I could be imagining it.
On the drive home the next morning, Jody chattered like usual, but there was a definite tension between us. The energy had changed. I told myself I was being too sensitive and that this hadn’t changed our friendship.
“Stop catastrophizing!” my therapist would say.
But it would take almost another decade for Jody and I to travel together again. And even then, it wasn’t just us two, but a third friend came along. I knew what that meant. If I came down with a migraine, Jody would have someone else to hang out with.
I couldn’t blame her, and if I was being honest, that wasn’t the only reason our friendship grew strained. We drifted apart like long-time friends can sometimes do. But I couldn’t help wondering if her frustration with my migraines hurried it along.
I never discussed it with her. To suffer from an invisible illness doesn’t just debilitate me physically, but emotionally and mentally too.
If I say nothing, I take up less space. I’m no longer a burden to anybody.
But if I don’t advocate for myself, who will? Why is my kneejerk reaction always to dismiss my pain and put on a smiling face?
Since the Galapagos trip, I have found my voice by supporting migraine awareness movements and organizations. It’s easier to take up space and be loud when you’re surrounded by fellow chronic migraine sufferers and advocates.
I have yet to voice my hurt feelings to my friend, but I’m working on asserting myself.
That’s all we can do. Give ourselves the space to grieve over strained friendships and missed opportunities caused by our illness while celebrating those fleeting moments of strength, joy, and connection.
It’s enough for now.
Sarah M. Chen (she/her) has published over thirty short stories, one of which won a Derringer Award for Best Long Story. Her noir novella, Cleaning Up Finn, was an Anthony finalist and IPPY Award winner. The second edition of her children’s chapter book, Superbeetle, was recently released under a pen name. She’s the co-editor of several anthologies and has written for the Los Angeles Review of Books, Wellbeing, Intrepid Times, and Mixed Asian Media, among others.
Website: sarahmchen.com
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