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I've had headaches for as long as I can remember. Decades now. They range from mildly annoying to downright debilitating. Mostly, they inhabit the space right behind my nose and eyeballs. It's a pressure system that pushes against my face, constantly reminding me that something is not right.

As a kid, I would mention these headaches to my pediatrician at each annual visit. He would tell me they were growing pains and not to worry. If that were true, I concluded that I would probably grow up to be the tallest woman with the biggest head in the world. Each year he'd say the same thing, and each year I'd leave his office dissatisfied, knowing that I could expect more "growing pains" in my skull. Aside from this annual complaint, I never talked about my headaches. I assumed everyone was growing and, thus, experiencing some sort of pain with which they had to contend. Who was I to complain?

My pain tolerance was high and I knew how to compensate for the headaches and work around them. I believed if I acknowledged them, I would make them real. At the point of naming them, I would go to my room, turn off the lights, lay a wet towel on my face, and be stuck alone with "the enemy" for the rest of my life. So, I never named them, never talked about them, and never sought any help. Even as an adult, I kept relatively quiet about my headaches because I believe "life is short" and the last thing I want is to spend my days talking about my pain or to be known as the "woman with the headaches." Besides, it's not like I have cancer, or some real illness, like countless people out there who really do deserve our sympathy and support. For Pete's sake, I just have headaches!

And yet, the pain refuses to be denied.

I am married to Michael, a very patient and kind man who, despite my headaches, seems to adore me. We have four children, ages 12 through 5. I try hard not to let the headaches interfere with our family life. And yet, how could they not? The crew knows I suffer with them, and they are all very understanding. I usually warn them if it's a bad day and I don't have the energy to rise above it. Everyone pitches in to cover for me during those times. (I must admit, it's humbling to have your 5-year-old try to take care of you.)

As a Christian, my aching head and heart is wrapped around the truth that the Creator of the universe loves me and cares about my every circumstance. That belief has given me the courage to try to understand why my head always feels as if it's about to explode.

I began the assault on "the enemy" three years ago, around my 39th birthday (okay, so it took me awhile). At once, I entered the world of doctors, CAT scans, waiting rooms, diets, and chart keeping. I ran from ear, nose, and throat specialists to internists to allergists to chiropractors to nutritionists to holistic medical doctors with detailed charts of pain, head x-rays, supplements, vitamins, diets, and medications. One time I even lay half naked on a table with twangy music playing in the background as a doctor placed long needles into my body, from head to toe, telling me the acupuncture would make a difference. I freaked out.

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