On Getting to Know Our Neighbors

A few nights ago, my husband and I were discussing how the weather here in Jordan is about to hit sub-zero temperatures within the next week. We were lamenting about how cold our room was getting, and that we needed to turn up the radiant heat in the floors. Then, my husband started thinking about all of the people who had no homes to give them shelter from the cold; he asked if I had any more scarves, hats or other warm clothes I could part with to add to the bags he already had in the trunk of his car, waiting to be donated to refugees. We both started going through our closets and cupboards to see what else we could donate. 

It was about 8 p.m. by the time we finished collecting items and bundled ourselves up to go deliver the warm clothing. We decided to take them to a tent encampment located on a vacant lot just outside the perimeter of a big shopping mall near our home. My husband thought the people living there were from among Jordan’s gypsy population, but we weren’t sure. I had been there once before in the past year during the warmer months to donate clothing, so I knew right where to go. First, however, I asked my husband if we could stop by the grocery store to get some small milk boxes and cookies for the children there. We got two family-sized packages of chocolate cream-filled biscuits and twenty individual chocolate-milk boxes, and then headed off to the tent site. 

When we arrived, my husband told me to be a bit cautious, as some of the gypsies can be quite aggressive in asking for money or more assistance when people stop to help them. I had actually already seen this in previous situations where we had stopped to give cash; sometimes they will grab at one’s arms, pound on cars, shout, etc. To be better prepared, we had all the items to be donated in the car’s trunk, and he told me not to linger, that we should just say a quick ‘Hello’, donate the items and leave. We pulled our Jeep up alongside one of the tents and my husband honked the horn a few times then stepped out to call to the people living there. 

A very tentative woman in what appeared to be her early forties stepped out of the tent to see who was there, and my husband greeted her, motioning to her as he called out, “Tal!” which means, “Come!” She walked up the muddy hillside, arms crossing her body and shivering in the cold. My husband introduced us, and asked her name. She said she is Um Mohammad, or ‘the mother of Mohammad’, which indicates her eldest son is named Mohammad. In patrilineal Middle Eastern culture, a father and mother take the titles ‘Abu’ and ‘Um’ which mean ‘father’ and ‘mother’, followed by their eldest son’s name, unless they have only daughters, in which case they would use their eldest daughter’s name. A son who is born after daughters essentially bumps his eldest sister out of the way on the day of his birth, and from then on, his parents proudly claim their new titles bearing their son’s name.

Um Mohammad was quickly joined by a daughter, about eight or nine years old, and then another daughter who looked to be about sixteen. My husband asked her how many children she had. She said she had six, all under the age of the eldest girl standing next to her. The two girls took some of the bags to the tent while my husband and I continued to talk to Um Mohammad. She shared that she and her husband and children had fled Iraq during the last war, and that her husband had since passed away, leaving her to care for their six children. She was very kind, gentle, and gracious, and thanked us repeatedly. When we asked if there was anything else she could use, she emphatically said, “Blankets!” I told my husband to ask her if her children could read, thinking they could use some books, and she replied that they had been denied access to the public schools in Jordan. My husband explained to me later in the car that my question likely translated in her mind as “Do your children go to school?” She did say they would appreciate any books we could bring when I offered. I kept imagining how a mother and her six children occupy their time in a tent in the freezing cold with no cell phones, no televisions, no iPods or iPads, no magazines or books. The mother of a teen and a young adult myself, I kept thinking that this woman’s teenaged daughter should be in the prime of her life, discovering her beauty as a young woman, spending time with friends and excitedly planning her future, not living like this. In my own experience tent camping for leisure, I know how cold the nights and dawn hours can be, but I cannot fathom what they must be going through in the cold dampness, possibly dealing with hunger on top of all the other discomforts they face. I was reminded again how very comfortable my life is and how much I have to be grateful for, but more importantly, how much more I can be doing to help others in need. 

My husband and I went to have a bowl of soup afterwards and were discussing other ways we can help support this family, already feeling a personal connection to them. I know we cannot help every person in need, but I kept thinking that if each person would commit to helping one family or group of people on a regular basis, what a great difference it could make. Many are already doing this, or making regular charitable contributions to organizations that provide relief to the disadvantaged, which is commendable, but donations here and there to various groups seems somehow less sustainable to me, and less personal. Imagine the difference in the lives of Um Mohammad and her children if they knew they could expect regular visits from us, asking if we could help in any way, however small. Just the building of relationship alone is something all of us could benefit from; when we put a name to the faces we see, it becomes more real and we become less desensitized to the deplorable conditions in which others are forced to live.  We begin to recognize a bit of ourselves in others.

When we got home, I did some quick research on the Iraqi diaspora, curious about the circumstances that brought Um Mohammad and her family here. I learned that Jordan and Syria took in nearly 2 million Iraqi refugees, many of them poverty stricken Shiite Muslims, during the years 2003-2006 alone, the timeframe she said she and her family arrived in Jordan. During those years, tens of thousands of Iraqis crossed over Jordan’s borders monthly as ‘refugees’. Sadly, to complicate things further for the Iraqis seeking refuge, Jordan’s government classified them as ‘visitors’ rather than ‘refugees’. This classification denies them the same government assistance and benefits that those with refugee status are entitled to receive, including subsidized housing, food, medical care and the right to an education or a job. In addition to being displaced, Shiite Muslims from Iraq received a not-so-warm welcome from Jordan’s majority Sunni Muslim population and were often singled out. Some of these people likely had homes, jobs, and decent lives in Iraq, however humble. They had to leave all of that behind, though, just for a chance to survive. Picture yourself living under such conditions, or your family, friends or neighbors reduced to living in squalor through no fault of their own.  

Refugees and ‘visitors’, like Um Mohammad and her family, are stuck in limbo; they lack the ability and opportunity to improve their situations, at least not in the short term upon arrival to their host countries. They are rendered helpless, and must rely upon God and the handouts of others. For better or for worse, Jordan, like my home country, offers a safe harbor to so many in need, but it can only do so much. Complicated politics and religious tensions aside, the fallout from the countless conflicts and wars in this region has impacted individuals and families on all fronts: not only financially and materially, but emotionally, physically and spiritually as well. Enduring something of this magnitude would shake even the strongest spirit to its core. 

As we drove away, my husband and I both felt a cloud of sadness come over us that stayed with us the rest of the night and we couldn’t stop thinking about this family. We know they are only one family among hundreds of thousands who are homeless and living in poverty in Jordan. Many are denied the ability to work or attend school, so must resort to demeaning ways of earning income just to survive. The plight of Iraqi refugees is ‘old news’, though, with the more recent influx of Syrian refugees who are suffering horribly in over-crowded and under-supplied camps in other parts of Jordan. The number of people crying out for assistance has overwhelmed Jordan’s economy and it can’t keep up with their needs. Resentment has grown among Jordan’s own population as these refugees compete to find a way to rebuild their lives through various entrepreneurial pursuits. Outside aid is slow or inconsistent in coming. Global society, with its short attention span, is beginning to become apathetic to such humanitarian crises, feeling inundated with news about the status of refugees. Man cannot give up on his fellow human beings; we must each do whatever is in our power, capacity and means to lift up our brothers and sisters, and to let them know we have not given up on them.  We must stop focusing on the differences that exist between men, and instead start seeing the ways we are interconnected as human beings.

I encourage everyone reading this, wherever you reside in the world, to commit yourselves to making a personal difference in the life of someone in need. Give generously of your time, your talents, your energy, and most importantly, your love. No matter what your belief system, I think we can all agree that charitable acts are a worthy cause. During this blessed season where many of us remember Christ’s love and the sacrifices He made on our behalf, the highest praise we can give to Him is to show our love for His children on Earth. My wish is that we all share our love and generosity throughout this beautiful season and into the coming year until it becomes an essential part of who we are. It is through the more privileged, capable or fortunate that the downtrodden can rest assured that “God will provide.”

A Westerner’s Perspective on Domestic Workers in the Middle East

Today, my blog post is going to be a bit controversial, I’m afraid. This is a topic on which I have strong feelings but have shied away from for its sensitivity. These are only my perceptions as an expat from America where, for the most part, hired “help” is only accessible to those in the upper echelons of society. When I first began visiting Jordan, where my husband’s family lives, I was very uncomfortable having a maid pick up after me, clean my private bathroom, and serve my meals. After several extended visits over three years, I finally moved here permanently in 2012.  Over time, I became accustomed to having a housemaid, although I don’t agree with the concept due to my upbringing in the states. In addition, maids are often treated unjustly here, though in our home that is definitely not the case. As a do-it-yourself American, in my opinion it would be much easier to just take care of things myself, often avoiding frustration and drama, but I have learned that culture also plays a big part in this custom.  Here, it is often considered beneath a person to do some of the everyday tasks I have grown up doing all my life. I am ashamed that I have come to accept this cultural norm on some levels, even though I disagree with it on principle. 

The way I found I could make a difference is by not treating domestic workers and service providers as lesser people than I am; that includes our family’s domestic employees and those of our friends, janitors and maids at the school where I work, waitstaff, parking lot attendants, etc. There is no need to talk down to another person, to demean them, or to make them feel as if they are somehow less worthy of respect as a human being. I do not want them to defer to me, to fear me, to avoid eye contact with me or to “obey” me, only to turn their back and speak ill of me to others, and I am astute enough to know that the way I treat them in large part dictates their attitude and behavior toward me. As my husband often says, “A little kindness and appreciation goes a long way.” Fortunately, the example I’ve seen in our home is a relationship of justice between domestic employees and their employers, and one of mutual respect.

Since helpers are hired to perform “jobs,” there should be some accountability on the part of their employers to treat them as proper employees. That means they should have rights; rights which include fair pay, reasonable hours, medical and dental care, and adequate time off to allow them balance in their lives. If an employee can’t be trusted to come back, then the employer must consider that they may have chosen poorly, and they may even want to reevaluate the way they have been treating that employee. Generally, if an employee feels appreciated, respected, and valued, she will not run off. They need the work, and they will continue coming to work if the job is a good one. Let’s face it: cleaning up after others is not a real pleasant job. Many of us have had to do it as either a childhood chore responsibility, as a parent, or as part of our own work, so we know what housework and home maintenance entails. It’s not glamorous; it is hard work, backbreaking work sometimes, and it’s endless. Now, think how it would feel to have someone snapping at you, criticizing your work, and watching your every move all day at your job, giving you looks of disdain and mistrust. That would create a bit of stress, I imagine, and a good dose of resentment for one’s boss.  It would feel demoralizing.

Where I am from, nursing homes and independent living centers for the elderly are commonplace, as are home daycare centers, where a licensed childcare provider will use part or all of her home to run a regulated business, and is authorized to care for a specific number of children. Here in Jordan, I was surprised to find out that such options are nearly, if not completely, non-existent.  Therefore, loved ones are not farmed out if they have special needs or are too old to care for themselves any longer; they remain in the family home and hired help is arranged to care for them.  While some children attend pre-school for half a day, childcare centers offering care from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. are unheard of. Labor is extremely inexpensive in Jordan, and laws for hiring domestic workers are much less stringent than in other parts of the world, therefore it is much easier to afford to hire helpers to live in one’s home for room and board, and a shockingly paltry salary.  Even many of those who fall in the lower middle class here in Jordan have at least one maid, and those with more affluence often have a few to several maids, a nanny or two, a guard, a driver and a gardener.  Some even go out in public with a posse of care providers to help them go about daily living.  I’m not going to lie; it’s nice having someone else around to do the lion’s share of the work.

Yes, one hears how these workers “have it much worse at home,” or that they “have no better options,” and that “they choose to come here to work, and that “they actually have a better life here!” Fine, and those statements may all be true in some cases. I have been in the homes of many families I know where I have seen the maids treated very respectfully, and even in some cases, as part of the family. Some people here say, “if you treat maids too nicely, they take advantage of you, so you have to keep your distance and not get too friendly.” I’ve tried to wrap my brain around this concept, and justify it by rationalizing that at the end of the day, it IS a job for them, and one which they interviewed for and accepted, and for which they get paid. But these individuals who care for us in our homes are human beings with needs, thoughts, and feelings, to the same extent their employers have. They have lives outside of our homes, and worries, financial commitments and external stressors, and they carry the weight of this worry daily.  When dealing with people, there is no black and white in behavior; we are not machines performing jobs, we are imperfect living, feeling, thinking beings. Domestic workers should have all the same opportunities to express themselves as any other person, and to work to improve their stations in life.  They, too, dream of finding true love, and of having a better life.  They should be asked how they are doing, how they are feeling, and be cared for reciprocally.  I am not suggesting the employer should stand in as confidante and therapist; if allowed social lives, friends are available to be a listening ear to them.  But if kept in the home of their employer 24/7, whom else do they have to show concern for them?  After they are done with their work, they should be able to remove their aprons, so to speak, and then they should be able to enjoy their personal lives.  If not, we are no better than slave owners in a modern, civilized society, and that is atrocious. As an American who was raised learning about the horrors of slavery, it’s an affront to me to witness this domineering, self-righteous, caste-like treatment of a fellow human being. I know it is common in many parts of the world, but I don’t condone it, and it doesn’t mean it is just.  There’s no way to justify this type of behavior, or to sugar coat the fact that many employers overstep the boundaries and abuse the rights that should exist between them and their domestic workers.  There is certainly a way to be an assertive employer who holds his employees accountable without infringing on their basic rights as human beings.

There are employment agencies that help place domestic workers, for a fee of course, and then the people hiring them also pay the agency placement fees.  It comes down to business at the end of the day, and the hired help are the last ones in the equation to benefit from such arrangements.  Many of the maids and guards/gardeners have families back at home; their own children and spouses and extended family and friends are far away and out of reach.  They are far from the cultural comforts of home. A large portion of their salaries is sent home to help support their families.  I’m no authority on the subject, but I would venture to guess that they come here to survive, not because they want to be here, for the most part.

Many maids here, I have learned, are kept almost hostage, having their passports and earned pay held by their employers so they won’t “run away.”  And some of them do run away.  For various reasons, but mostly because they feel oppressed, mistreated, and underpaid. They feel they have no options…in this place where they have come to have “better options” and a “better life.”  Some, on the other hand, run off for love or out of mischief, and some even rob their employers on the way out. It happens. They have no real rights; they can be turned in to the police based on the word of their employer, with no burden of proof, and can even face deportment. They can be stopped while out in public, and forced to show their identification and work permits, just on a whim, so must have these documents on their person at all times.

Most homes here in Jordan are designed with a maid’s room, and the ones I have seen are smaller than some of the food pantries or master bedroom walk-in-closets I have had in the past.  This is the space where the maid can spend her limited free time. Some, the "lucky" ones, have laptop computers or mobile phones and are allowed Internet access so they can go online for learning, entertainment or socializing, and perhaps even to stay in contact with their families via Skype. Some are allowed nights off on a weekly basis, to leave the home altogether. Others are allowed only one day a month off, and must return home to sleep after that day is done. Some are expected to work 24/7, on call at a moment’s notice.  Others have flexible schedules that require only that they complete the necessary tasks for the day and then they can relax in between, and they are “off the clock” as soon as the family is settled for the night, usually after dinner.  

Some may think I have no right to judge, and they are correct. It is not my intent to judge, or to try to understand the intricacies of a centuries-old cultural system, but I can say what I see and how I perceive it from my own perspective. I think it’s awful. Will it end anytime soon? Probably not. Can people choose to change their attitudes about it? Yes. That is my point in all of this; to raise awareness about the subject and to encourage people to bring themselves to account for the way they treat their fellow human beings. Some people will be unmoved by this, or even incensed that I feel I have the right to broach the subject. Others will be saddened, angry and motivated to create change of the conditions in which hired help work. There are several organizations in Jordan that are advocating for better laws to protect the rights of domestic workers, and many fair, kind and just employers, and I applaud their efforts.

In a perfect world, only those who could afford to pay fair compensation for work performed would have the luxury of having hired help. Many would lose that luxury and would be faced with the rude awakening of doing for themselves. Maybe the house would be a bit less sparkly, or the children may have a few dribble stains on their shirts, the windows would get washed quarterly instead of weekly, and the car would only be washed monthly instead of daily. That is the reality for many, and let me tell you, it is a good feeling to care for oneself and to be self-sufficient. I know that culturally, it is considered a rank of status to have hired helpers here in the Middle East. People notice if others have hired helpers working for them and how many, and it is mentally noted. Bringing about a change in attitudes about the need for and treatment of domestic workers will not happen overnight. There are many more issues related to domestic workers in the Middle East, even horrendous stories of abuse, which I have not touched on here. Clearly, Middle Eastern society has a long way to go in terms of attaining equality for all its peoples. 

A sense of entitlement is very ego-based, and when ego is strong, pride takes over.  Pride stands in the way of a lot of things, and only when we face that less desirable part of ourselves can we see ourselves the way others see us.  Only then, too, can we see others as living beings with feelings, hopes and dreams like we have for ourselves. In this unstable world in which we live, we see all around us the cushy and comfy lifestyles of some being abruptly yanked out like rugs from under their feet.  Economic strife, war, and other unforeseen circumstances can change our lives in the blink of an eye.  In these situations, the playing field is suddenly leveled and people from all walks of life find themselves standing shoulder to shoulder, just trying to survive. It’s best to be prepared, for we never know when we will be humbled and have to rely on ourselves to get things done. Why not practice a bit more humility now, especially in our interactions with others? All major religions in the world, and even secular teachings, have a saying for the “Golden Rule,”  yet many good people seem to forget the Golden Rule, or only apply it when it suits them, often in the form of charity. The point is not to throw money around to make up for the ill treatment of others, absolving us of our transgressions. It’s about treating people in the right way every day because we know that is what we should do, and immediately apologizing for our shortcomings when we fail to do so.  

Respectfully written,

~MK

Maladies of a Migraineur

Migraineur is a funny word; coincidentally, its first known use was in 1970, the year I was born, perhaps in tribute of its newest victim. It’s as if we are so good at migraines, we can market them! After experiencing a doozy of a migraine over the past twenty-four hours, I was prompted to write about them. The topic is a bit odd among my collection of posts, I realize, but let’s see where this goes...

I've done my research and tried many remedies

My first migraine came when I was eighteen and in college. To be sure, it could just as easily have been a hangover at that phase in my life, but in this case, was verifiably not. I recall having to miss classes that day, and the next, to hole myself up in my room with not only the shades pulled, but with a quilt tacked up over the window as well, to provide maximum darkness. Even the slightest sound made me think my head would explode. I had no appetite and even vomited, this time through no fault of my own. In short, I thought I was dying .

Little did I know these would continue to plague me over the next twenty-five years, or longer.  

One of the many blessings of becoming a mother when I was almost twenty-four was the cessation of my migraines, for the most part. Though I did experience them during the first trimester of my second pregnancy when I was twenty-six, they largely disappeared until I turned thirty-two. Since that time, I have suffered from roughly five to six per month, many of them extremely debilitating and lasting anywhere from twelve to seventy-two hours. At the time they began reoccurring, I was a single mother with two small girls and a veritable zoo of animals, working full-time, so life simply had to go on. Medication in the states was beyond my reach, with astronomical out-of-pocket insurance expenses, so I often just rode out the pain. I recall barely making it through the workdays, and then performing the bare minimum of tasks and parenting responsibilities before succumbing to the pain and taking refuge in my bed. Years later, it broke my heart when I asked my girls how they remembered those times. My eldest daughter said they felt guilty that they couldn’t stop my pain, and sometimes felt that they were the cause. She said they would tip toe around the house trying not to disturb me, and would try to be very responsible, looking after themselves as best they could. No child should EVER have to bear that burden. Sadly, my younger daughter already shows signs of having inherited the dreaded migraine curse.

My daily preventative trio, and my emergency kit

Since moving to the Middle East in 2012 where medical care is reasonable and drugs are for the most part very affordable, and often available over-the-counter for these types of things, I have been able to treat my migraines when they come. Even so, the loss of days, which add up to years, due to frequent migraine pain can leave one with a sense of hopelessness, dread and even impending doom. I know that sounds dramatic, but it is absolutely true. On the flip side, when migraineurs are well, they are so very grateful for each day that they feel so. I’m not going to go into the “why people get migraines” and the “what treatments work” or the “preventative lifestyles” of it all, because that varies on a case-by-case basis, but studies have shown a hereditary link, and scientific research on the topic is boundless and fascinating. About a year ago, a neurologist here in Jordan saw me and prescribed an amazing trio that has so far prevented my migraines, or at least dramatically reduced their frequency. I take 100 mg. of Vitamin B2 (Riboflavin), 100 mg. of Magnesium, and 25 mg. of a beta-blocker, typically used to treat high blood pressure. For me, this daily combo has been a life-changer. I've gone from five or six episodes a month to usually just one, but the best part is the intensity is much less and I can often treat them with an over-the-counter drug such as Excedrin Migraine or Panadol Advanced along with Naproxen sodium. 

Ellie, keeping guard outside my door during an attack

Usually one of my first warning signs is a heightened sense of smell.  Often, I will swear that something is burning and go about the house sniffing outlets, usually looking for an electrical fire. The phantom smell is always one of burning wires and plastic, or sometimes propane gas. Perfume can also be a trigger for me, or artificial smells such as air-fresheners or household cleaning products. This olfactory sensitivity would always be my daughters’ first clue that I was about to have an attack. Strangely, my dog would often be very clingy with me just before an episode, as if she sensed the storm before I even knew it was about to hit. Right before an attack, my eyes will often feel strange, like I need to stretch my eyeballs, and very occasionally I see an aura behind my eyes, and my neck chords almost always becomes tight and painful. 

Ellie, right next to my bed, worried and protective.

Last night, however, was an exception–it was a once-in-two-or-three-years migraine attack. It came on suddenly with none of the typical warning signs I usually get to give me a clue. I was at work, and felt a “headache” during the last hour of the day, but was still chatting, even smiling and laughing. One hour later, I was down for the count. My husband was downstairs enjoying family time and at two and a half hours into the attack, I had to text him that I needed him to give me an injection, but that I had an empty stomach and was nauseous. I knew I needed to eat before getting the shot, so choked down my "migraine special" of white rice, dry toast, and plain yogurt with cucumber and mint that he brought up to me. He gave me the shot, which usually works within two to three minutes, and I confidently waited. Instead, it made things much worse for some reason. I was writhing in pain, trying to find a comfortable position, had my earplugs in and eye mask on, and was trying to apply an ice-pack and pressure to my forehead. By 8:00 p.m., I was begging for our acupuncturist/acupressurist, and he kindly accommodated on short notice as he often does when I get an attack. 

One of the several prayers I have memorized that I recite when I'm having a migraine attack.  

While I waited for Dr. Chang to arrive, I kneeled on a pillow on the floor with my head on the edge of my bed against an ice-pack while my husband gently rubbed my back and just calmed me with his silent presence. I discovered about two migraines ago that listening to meditative music (specifically spoken or chanted prayers from my faith, and very mellow classical or nature music) takes my mind off the pain, and allows me to focus on something else, so I did that as well. Finally, I did vomit and felt much better. After the doctor worked on me for about an hour, the pain was lessened, but still there and I could hear the blood rhythmically swooshing through my temples as I lay my head on my pillow. I slept poorly, off and on, and woke up a train-wreck, with a typical “migraine hangover.” Once a migraine starts to subside, my husband always asks, “How do you feel NOW?” My reply is always, “Fragile.” That’s the best term I can come up with to describe the day-after effect. Today was lost to catch-up sleep and general malaise.

Face and scalp stuck full of acupuncture needles last night

Dr. Chang is a true healer and I always tell him that.  

All this detail is part of the picture I want to paint for non-migraineurs so they can understand the impact these headaches can have on those who love and support migraine sufferers. It is not all about migraineurs; their families also suffer greatly. They feel helpless to take the pain away, they get frustrated, inconvenienced, and I’m sure they get just plain sick and tired of dealing with the episodes. I read a statistic today that stated that 10% of migraine sufferers get divorced due to their illnesses. Apparently, some partners finally get fed up, or the migraineurs are so miserable to live with that they drive their partners away. Thankfully for me, I have an understanding husband who is selfless, supportive, nurturing and kind, but who also sadly can relate to my pain as a cluster-headache sufferer himself. His condition, a rare and cyclical one that affects mostly men, is said to cause pain ten times the intensity of a migraine, and is likened to having a limb amputated without anesthetic. He can get daily attacks for up to a month at a time, typically every eighteen months in his case. After a few years of misdiagnosis, he was finally properly diagnosed last year, and oddly enough, takes the same Imigran injection that I do for my migraines. So, we’re a broken pair, but that suits us just fine because we can empathize with one another and know how to support each other when in pain.  

This post is for all the ladies in my life who suffer from migraines: my youngest daughter, my older sister, several of my sisters-in-law, cousins, and countless other good friends and acquaintances. I personally don’t know any men who get them, but this is for them, too! I know there is no cure, and sometimes it feels no end is in sight. Many people think we make up the pain, that we are seeking attention, that we are weak or somehow overly dramatic. We miss work sometimes, and we have to bow out on social functions and family gatherings from time to time. We suffer from insomnia, and sometimes even anxiety and mild depression. We can be cranky, and need to be left alone. For all of this, we are sorry. We feel guilty. We don’t seek sympathy; we seek understanding. To non-migraineurs, I say only that I hope you never experience a bad migraine–I wouldn’t wish one on anybody. I know there are far worse chronic or acute conditions and diseases that people suffer from, and in no way do I discount them. Migraines are just among the few misunderstood chronic conditions that people cannot relate to unless they have had one. Maybe this post will inspire others to have a little better understanding of and compassion for sufferers everywhere who deal with migraines and other chronic illnesses. It’s definitely an interesting journey. There is a saying, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I would add "grateful" to that statement. So many of my friends are true heroes who suffer from chronic pain, some on a daily basis, and who still manage to be cheerful and positive, and are even in the constant service of others. They make my migraines seem like a party in my head. 

Want to learn more?

migraines.org

migraine.com

Cheers! Here’s to a new day!

~M.