The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria. I open the windows and feel the air, eat gratefully, sleep well. I notice the particular nature of a flower in a glass on the stair landing. I count my blessings.
In the end she seems somewhat thankful for the migraine. She was angry in the beginning, but she has accepted it for what it is.
We have reached a certain understanding, my migraine and I
Personification. Speaking as if she can literally come to an understanding with her migraine.
My husband also has migraine, which is unfortunate for him but fortunate for me: perhaps nothing so tends to prolong an attack as the accusing eye of someone who has never had a headache. "Why not take a couple of aspirin," the unafflicted will say from the doorway, or "I'd have a headache, too, spending a beautiful day like this inside with all the shades drawn."
The tone in these sentences are angry. She feels as though people don't take her migraines seriously and they play it off as though she doesn't want to help herself.