Smash Your Thumb with a Hammer. Every Hour. Of Every Day. For 10 Years. Then You’ll Understand.
I read Judith Brice’s touching insights into a life with constant, chronic pain and found myself thinking about my own battles with pain and pain management, and how completely misunderstood real sufferers have become in the Opioid Crisis age.
After greed or addiction issues, or both, drove so many doctors to hand out pills like candy to patients dealing with minor injuries or minor post-surgical pain, a heavy-handed response from the government has put people like Judith and myself in a difficult position.
Since they basically threw everyone who’s on prescription pain medication into one big box, those of us with a real need are now all assumed to be drug addicts by the general public, and automatically carry the labels and assumptions that go with that rubber stamp.
However, that assumption doesn’t stop with the public. I have faced scorn and disdain from nurses while in for treatments, consultations, and especially — when needing refills. The part that makes that really screwed up is, several have been nurses who were part of my diagnosis and treatment from Day One.
By putting everyone who’s taking pain medication into the same group, whether they have been prescribed it or have stolen it from someone’s medicine cabinet, they have also limited the interest in treating true chronic pain (medically), instead focusing on treatment and prevention for addiction.
By misunderstanding and/or ignoring the dramatic differences between Patient A and Patient B, the CDC, the Government, and the doctors who see and treat chronic pain are ignoring the real problems while imposing a “carpet bomb” solution to cover their asses.
“We don’t understand the different requirements, so we’re going to assume everyone is faking it until further notice.” said Everyone Involved.
And, there is the issue right there. You cannot possibly understand chronic pain unless you suffer from real chronic pain. Could you claim to understand life as an amputee if you still had all of your limbs? Not possible. How can anyone seriously treat a medical problem that they can’t and don’t understand?
Mental illness, cancer, the flu, and even the common cold have been broken out into sub-classes and offshoots to make identification and treatment more effective, so why would anyone think to lump every single pain patient into one category?
Of course, there are bad apples in the bunch who are busy working the systems to get their hands on drugs and disability. There is always a fringe element with purely selfish intent which screws things up for those of us with real issues.
I can’t believe you could possibly look at the x-rays at the top of this article and tell me I’m one of your “average” patients, or that I am faking the misery that rules my entire life.
That was taken after fusion number 3 by the way. If you want to know about real pain, give that a little procedure a try. I’m sure there are worse things. I’m also sure that I don’t ever want experience them.
I had some short-lived, minor relief after each of the back surgeries I tried. But in the end, scar tissue and arthritis won out and condemned me to a life of pain and a dependency on The System for any kind of normal life.
Right now, the medical clinic treating my chronic pain holds my entire life in their hands.
When I talk about pain, I’m not talking about a bad headache, or a stubbed toe. And I’m not talking about the kind of pain you get from a paper cut, or a splinter, or even a broken bone.
All of those will heal and the physical pain will fade. It might take a week, or a month, or even longer, but the pain will go away.
I’m talking about real, disruptive, unending pain that grinds and buzzes in the background of your every thought and never, ever stops. I’m talking about the kind of misery that affects every decision you make every day of your life.
I’m discussing pain that affects your ability to make a living, and your ability to enjoy any fruits of that labor if you do manage to keep a 9 to 5.
Chronic pain disrupts your ability to sleep night after night after night and then eats at your soul on those days when Despair creeps in to pal around with Exhaustion.
But, how do you possibly understand me, how do you understand something you can’t see, hear, or feel? You can’t understand chronic pain because there’s no way for you to experience it unless you submit to being tortured for a few days in a row.
If you want to know what living with chronic pain is truly like, smash your thumb with a hammer just once, but really hard, then try to get through dinner without mentioning it. Smash it again and again, every hour on the hour and then try to sleep.
Really whack your thumb just a few times throughout the day, but hit it really hard. Smash it until the nail start to fall off and it turns black and blue. Then, try to get through your entire workday while preventing the torment from affecting your relationships, or even showing on your face. But don’t forget to smash in it the middle of the day too so the pain level stays up and constant.
Just to make it fair, I’ll even give you the pass everyone believes I get, the thing that makes my existence bearable (mostly). Go a few days without first, but when you can’t take it any longer go ahead and dig in to the pain killers.
Grab a few doses of morphine and oxycodone to take the edge off, but keep smashing your thumb. You’ll get the full up and down rhythm that way. I should
The first thing you’ll probably notice is that you don’t get any kind of high from the drugs. You don’t get any kind of buzz from either medication, you just get relief. If you’re lucky.
Let’s just say for the sake of discussion that it’s not your thumb that hurts, but your back and the pills give you enough relief to get out of bed and work full time, would you take them?
However, consider the consequences. If you’re a pilot, you’re done flying. In fact, if you’re studying to get your private pilot’s license. kiss that goodbye. Same for your Captain’s license. You can forget about renewing that while on morphine. In fact, there are quite a few things you can no longer do. Like drive a semi. If those are your jobs, you’re screwed.
You can’t recall pain, you can only recall being in pain. Try to remember the most painful thing that ever happened to you, the very worst pain you’ve ever felt. You can’t, you can only remember that it happened. You can’t make the sensation return to your fingertips, or foot, or back.
And I can’t do anything to help you remember, and help you relate to me except suggest that you smash your thumb with a hammer. Do it as soon as you wake up every morning, then at randomly do it again throughout the day.
Do that day in and day out, so you never forget that the pain is there for 10 straight years and things will probably go something like this.
Every morning I begin my daily ritual when I sit down at my desk to write. It is one of readjustment, and causes me to wiggle, stretch, twist, and re-position a thousand times as I try to find some relief, some kind of comfort. I bounce my right leg up and down and a distraction but it’s fleeting at best.
Every pose, every position is temporary and must be changed often to keep the pain level down to a dull roar while I wait for my first dose of meds to take over. I’d even settle for “less miserable.”
Just finding a way to take the pain level down from a this morning’s 8 to a comfortable 5 or 6 would be acceptable. But, it will be a while. This routine usually lasts an hour, sometimes longer, until my body cooperates or I give up and take a pill.
The pills and the process of getting treatment are their very own misery, but we’ll get to that in another post.
Along with the pain comes the electric shocks that run across the tops of one or both thighs, causing me to jump a little every time as if I had the hiccups. Some days are worse than others, those are the days I just go back to bed and hope for a break.
Sometimes the pain is accompanied by burning and itching. The sensation is so deep under my skin it feels like my bones themselves have been plagued with poison ivy. I want to scratch at the source, but it’s impossible to reach which causes me to sometimes scratch so hard I can wear through or tear open the tops of my thighs.
I’ve learned to keep my fingernails trimmed back so far I might as well not have any, that keeps me from accidentally injuring myself by trying to scratch all the way down to the source. The perceived source.
Once my body finally does readjust to Vertical mode I can at least stand up. At that point, a whole new level of discomfort and disruption begins as I walk, sit, stand, and ride through my day while constantly seeking out some physical angle or twist that will bring me relief.
There isn’t one.
After my third spinal fusion surgery, I was hopeful that I might be able to continue with the plans I had put in motion for my future. As I healed and the pain from surgery retreated, and I felt like I might finally, after 8 years of physical therapy, medication, surgery and some of the most excruciating pain imaginable, I felt enough relief to believe I was finally going to get my life back.
When the fragile balance that kept me from becoming nearly crippled, one that I was unaware of, was finally disrupted, I had been working my way through a list of accomplishments that would help me with my master plan for the future.
All of it went out the window with my first surgery and the resulting pain medications. And, then with the fact that three times under the knife did nothing at all to give me any lasting relief. After my last surgery, my future plans had all been released like helium balloons after an outdoor party.
In order to ensure I can make a living without physical labor, I began a plan to become a published writer in 2016 and succeeded that August. I have always had a passion for writing, but the truth is, I felt I should have a back up plan for the future anyway, just in case I could no longer walk.
I have no interest in collecting disability, or getting a handicap sticker and parking up front, or riding in a wheelchair at the airport. I can still walk, and I can still get from Point A to Point B. The first time I say Yes to the wheelchair, it will become easier and easier to do in the future. For now, I’ll walk. And work.
There may come a day when getting around on foot becomes too overwhelmingly painful and I have to give in to the wheelchair. If that happens, so be it.
For now, the pain medication I take three times a day is all that stands between my fragile level of comfort, and hell. If they ever come up with a new treatment that regenerates your spinal column while you sleep, I’ll be first in line. I still have too many things to do
Until then, I just hope and pray that the pain management clinic just leaves me alone. Like I said, if they decide to stop treatment or even just reduce what I’m given now, I will be bedridden and bankrupt.
Smash Your Thumb with a Hammer. Every Hour. Of Every Day. For 10 Years. Then You’ll Understand.
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