A Gift to My Children: Lousy Genes
Milo (my six-year-old) it seems, is going to be a migraine sufferer. I can’t say I’m surprised. My husband gets them from time to time and my mother and sister have endured horrible headaches since early adolescence. So Milo was whacked with the hereditary-migraine stick from both sides.
I hoped he’d escape that pain. Asthma, eczema and life-threatening food allergies are enough for any kid to deal with, I think. Sure, it could be worse. It could be lots worse. But none of us wants to see our kids go down like migraines can take you down.
About a month ago, we came back from a fun outing in downtown Seattle that included copious mounds of cotton candy. Milo asked that our stereo be turned off. He started complaining that the lights were too bright. He couldn’t eat dinner. All he wanted was to lie on the couch with a blanket over his head.
Too much excitement? We wondered. Too much sugar? He went to bed at six p.m. and woke up fine the next morning.
A week later it happened again. This time I had no possible culprits. It had been a mellow day involving no armfuls of spun sugar.
Migraines? I thought. I relayed my theory to my husband. He was reluctant to buy into it.
I had experienced two migraines in my life, both hitting hard while I was taking birth control pills. They were accompanied by auras and were, healthwise, the most horrendous experiences I’d ever withstood. Including labor.
“No,” I said. “Really. I think he’s getting migraines.”
“Do six-year-olds even get migraines?”
“I think so. It’s possible, anyway.”
We looked at each other, a little stunned. A little mortified. Milo had inherited yet another flawed piece of our genetic puzzles. There are other imperfect codes for which he’s a candidate, of course. J.’s cancerous tendencies, my anxiety and the diabetes that courses through my family tree. We hope he’ll run those gauntlets without being snagged.
But, my migraine hypothesis was, as far as I’m concerned, proven last week when Milo had an especially long and rigorous day, came home whimpery, unable to eat, unable to tolerate light, nauseated and headachey. I put him to bed at six-thirty and thought, Another confirmed health issue my boy has to deal with. And I felt sad. The kind of sad only a parent can feel.
We’ll survive, of course. We’ll manage the migraines and work around them as best we can. But if the universe thinks it’s going to hand my son one more crappy diagnosis from here on out, it should ready itself for some serious mom-smackdown.
