Category Archives for Chronic Pain

Pain Clinic #2

Later today I have an appointment at the pain clinic.

The pain specialist I’ll be meeting with is the one who completed my intake last summer. I like her because she is not only thorough she is also very sympathetic. She is an anesthesiologist who specializes in pain management. What that means is that she has extensive knowledge of medications in addition to how the body responds to pain.

Before I met her the doctors treating me questioned the probability that my congenital condition was causing me the level of pain I reported. When she examined me my responses to cold, heat and and external pain stimuli were not within normal ranges – I am hypersensitive to all three. She also confirmed that my range of motion is substantially affected by my pain.

When the pain specialist delivered her report, my family doctor/general practitioner finally stopped pushing me to take antidepressants – she believed my pain was psychological. Because of that belief she had a theory that a certain brand of antidepressant would effectively treat my pain – it didn’t even make a dent. Upon receipt of the pain clinic’s report, she finally conceded that my pain is very real and started prescribing the level of pain medications I need to cope with the pain. She also stopped making me take the pain-filled trek into her office every few weeks so she could ‘assess’ me, which was a welcome outcome because traveling to see her caused me a lot of extra pain.

My reluctant surgeon’s attitude shifted too. When I first met her last summer she was almost dismissive of me and my concerns. She actually told me in that first appointment that she had not reviewed my images ahead of meeting me and needed to schedule time with her radiologist to do so before she could complete my diagnosis. That did not fill me with a lot of confidence. However, after she received the pain clinic’s report she started investigating options for dealing with my congenital condition that might not cause me incremental long-term pain or have a long list of poor outcomes.

Without the pain clinic I imagine that I would still be foundering to find doctors willing to listen to me and develop the right treatment plan(s) or give the proper level of support for me to cope with my pain. It makes me hope that others who are living with chronic pain resulting from any condition/illness are equally as fortunate to get the level of care they need from their healthcare providers.

 

Three Days Grace – Pain

Admitting You Feel Pain Does Not Make You Weak

Yesterday I read the post of a fellow traveller on the pain journey. The writer wrote that feeling pain made him feel weak and that he felt alone because he couldn’t tell anyone in his life what he is experiencing. Those two statements rang true with me and caused my heart to hurt for him.

Admitting you feel pain does not make you weak. Admitting this is the only way you can get help. You need to tell your doctor about the nature of your pain – where you feel it and the intensity – so he/she is able to thoroughly assess you and give you the care you need. If your general/primary practitioner is not able to treat you effectively then he/she can refer you to the specialist(s) with the right skills to find the cause of your pain and design a treatment plan for you. I’ll be the first to admit all of this may not happen overnight, but it won’t happen at all if you don’t tell your doctor.

I also remember feeling alone. I created much of my loneliness. I refused to tell my friends and family about the severity of my pain and how it was limiting my ability to care for myself. Because I couldn’t admit I needed help they couldn’t help me or support me. I was afraid to tell them because I was afraid to appear weak. My fear and stubbornness isolated me and without the support of my friends and family I did get weak – physically and mentally.

The writer spoke of his struggle to act normal and to pretend he wasn’t feeling pain. I understand the need to appear ‘normal’. For a while I was good at pretending that I was coping well – there are moments when I still pretend as a way of holding on to my independence – but the pretense is exhausting. Trying to cope with the pain and inability to live life normally is psychologically painful. Opening up to the people in your life can ease the pain. But if opening up to the people in your life feels unsafe, try to find a therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, social worker, or spiritual advisor with whom you can be comfortable sharing your feelings and fears. I’m lucky to have friends, family and a wonderful mental health group I can lean on. Without them I don’t know what I would do.

When the pain makes it difficult to interact try not to feel bad, and definitely don’t feel weak. Interacting with others for long periods when you feel pain IS HARD. It’s hard to be present with anyone when your mind is busy fighting to suppress the loud messages your body is frantically screaming out to get attention. The people who care about you will understand when you’ve reach your physical and psychological limits. If someone makes no effort to understand or makes you feel bad then maybe you should re-evaluate the role they play in your life because someone who cares about you will support what you need.

The writer has since taken down his blog. Before removing it he did thank me for the comment I posted. I hope that my comment of support stays with him and that he is able – sooner than later – to reach out for help.

 

UPDATE:
I’m happy to report that the writer who inspired this post did not remove is site. He responded to this post in the comments below. I think it’s so important for everyone coping with chronic pain to have a support system even if a part of it resides in a virtual community.

 

James Taylor & Carole King – You’ve Got a Friend

Farmhouse Mirage

The first evening we were at the farm I looked out the sitting room window toward the barn and I thought there was an animal perched on a cement block beside the barn.

I was told it was my imagination and that it might help if I put my glasses on. In defiance and determined to prove my friend wrong – and in spite of my pain – I put on my rubber boots and coat and walked out into the damp beginning of a rainfall. I gingerly found a safe path down a small slope in the back yard, squeezed myself through the narrow space between the fence and the chained gate dividing the yard from the field and limped my way over to the barn.

What I found sitting on the cement block was not an animal (dead or alive). It was a pile of rocks that appeared to have been arranged to look like an animal. I supposed it was intended to scare off any more turkey vultures from taking up residence in the barn.

After seeing this, I limped back to the fence, squeezed my way through the narrow space between the gate and much more slowly found my footing back up the sloped mound in the back yard. By then it was raining big, heavy raindrops. Each drop that landed on the top of my head felt enormous. With the rain coming down I crossed the back deck and walked through the sitting room door. I was greeted by the questioning eyes of my friend: was it an animal or are you seeing things? I did not satisfy her with a response.

I was seeing things. I am seeing things. Things that are there and things that may never be. I’ve reached a point where I can accept that my condition – and the chronic pain it has caused – is not temporary. Months ago I was certain that my reluctant surgeon was going to perform surgery that would repair my health and end my pain. But that’s not going to happen. At best my congenital condition – which at this point is a working diagnosis – will be repaired but the repair will give rise to serious complications. And the pain I now live with every day will remain and by all accounts may get worse.

So, there may not have been an animal by the barn, but I was willing to take action to find out what was out there. The determination that made me get up and walk out into the damp evening is what I’ve depended on my whole life to carry me through difficult situations. And it’s the same quality that continues to hold me together as I live through this illness.

 

Santana – Mirage (with lyrics) – Borboletta 1974