The PAIN- it's ALWAYS there and it's ALWAYS bad. I no longer refer the to "pain scale" that every doctor refers to because how would I explain how I live at a constant "5 or 6." And what about the flares? The flares that hit so sudden and so hard that I am on my bathroom floor at 2 in the morning SCREAMING. I would rate that a "10". How about when I am in the bath trying to do anything to ease the tension, but instead I am scratching at my own skin in an attempt to find ANY relief. That's an 11 on your scale, Doc. And after, when I find myself losing consciousness on the bathroom floor covered only by a soaked towel in the arms of my scared husband. What do I rate that? When will the number I give you mask your disbelief? When will I be allowed to speak up about my treatment plan and BE HEARD. Many of you might encourage me to "Find a different doctor!" ... I have 18. "Try yoga," they say, "it will ease your anxiety!" But my pain - my writhing, crippling PAIN has nothing to do with anxiety. It has everything to do with the shell that is supposed to hold my aching soul.
Today I woke up to the pain that caused me to pass out multiple times last night. I woke up to see the bruises from my own hands trying to do anything to tame the neuropathy. I am slapped hard in the face by reality when I look into my husbands eyes and realize this is not the life he signed up for. This is not the woman he agreed to grow old with. This isn't the person I know. How. In. The. Hell. Am I supposed to rate that on a "scale from one to ten how bad is your pain?" When I tell you, will you call me dramatic? Will you prescribe me opioids? Will you send me on my way to succumb to "anxiety"? Probably. Will I learn to cope? Probably. But for just one moment, I'm gonna shout it from the roof tops. PAIN IS NO JOKE.
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