Tag Archives for illness

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

Living On Edge for Me

I am the furthest thing from a religious person, but since becoming ill I see how blessed I am. There are people in my life that support me and stand by me – especially during times when I can barely stand on my own. They show me in so many ways how much they care about my health and well-being. And sometimes I lose sight of all that I have.

I have a friend who lives overseas that calls me every few weeks to check on me and get updates on the progress of the treatment of my illness. Last week I accidentally dialed his phone number because his name was in my call log right below the number of the person I intended to call. When I heard the overseas’ ringtone I quickly hung up because I realized I had misdialed. But within seconds of hanging up my friend called me back.

He panicked when he saw my call come through then disconnect. He called me back because he needed to make sure I was safe and that nothing had happened to me since our call a few days earlier. He asked if I had news from my doctors about the surgery I might have to have or if maybe my lawyer had called with news about my horrible boss. He was so relieved when I told him it was a misdial.

This friend is one of many friends and family who are on edge all the time for me. They wait with bated breath as I go to my many doctors’ appointments hoping I will come away with answers about how and when I will be better. They make time to research my condition and the many medications I take so they can have informative and supportive discussions with me. They propose things they hope will be helpful to combat my pain (meditation, acupuncture, marijuana and hypnosis). And – like my friend who called me in a panic – they all carry with them a degree of anxiety that grows the longer I continue to be ill.

That single phone call from my friend boosted me. He reminded me that I am not living through my illness alone. And in a few short minutes added to my blessings.

 

Coldplay – Don’t Panic

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