courage

4 Reasons Why Chronic Pain Sucks

Posted on by wkennar
(This magnet hangs on a board near my desk.)

I’ve been told I have a positive attitude. I’ve been praised for not letting my autoimmune disease take control of my life.

I try. I try very hard to look at the bright side, to acknowledge that things could always be worse, to do the things I want to do pain or no pain.

But, in all honesty, the last couple of weeks have been really bad. Like trying-not-to-cry-as-I-walk-back-to-the-car-after-taking-my-son-to-school bad. 

In our home, we don’t curse. Even words that other families might use, like “sucks,” isn’t a word we use. Except, occasionally. 

Today is one of those occasions.

Chronic illness sucks. Chronic illness that causes chronic pain really sucks. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. For example:

  1. Sleep does not equal less pain.  I rarely sleep through the night. If I only wake up once, that’s a good night’s sleep for me. But the other night I did something I hadn’t done in a long time — I slept through the night. My body had a full night of uninterrupted sleep. I woke up, amazed to realize it was morning. I got out of bed and felt … lousy. Terrible pain. From the moment I woke up until I went to bed again that night.
  2. Muscle spasms worsen everything.  I was sitting at my desk, with the dull pain I’m used to in my left leg. As my son was showering, my left calf began to twitch. And not in its usual twitching spot — more on the inside of my leg. This was the outer side of my calf. My muscle twitched, and I tried to rub my leg. My muscle continued twitching, and I bit my finger. It finally stopped twitching and I had a really hard time getting up from my desk chair. I had an even harder time stepping into my own shower. My leg was tight when I went to bed that night and no different when I woke up with the alarm the next morning.
  3. Rest doesn’t automatically mean relief.  I have been making an effort to take time for myself. To rest. Not in the form of a nap, but sitting outside on our patio, reading a book. I usually spend my days taking care of household chores, dealing with appointments, and writing. But I have been making a conscious decision to set aside some time during the week — when my husband is at work and my son is at school — just for me. To sit in one of my favorite places, doing one of my favorite things. I hoped to notice an improvement — an increase in relaxation, a decrease in discomfort. Nope. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I need to do this more often, more consistently. In any event, I got in some extra reading time. 
  4. Pain levels fluctuate.  When I spoke to my husband on one of his breaks, my pain wasn’t bad. It felt so good to be able to say that to him. By the time he called on his next break, about three hours later, it was bad. Pain-pill bad. I hadn’t done anything physically strenuous or anything I could see as a possible trigger (like gardening or standing on a step-stool to reach something on a high shelf in the closet). The pain shifted — from not bad to real bad. And for no apparent reason. 

Dusk, Night, Dawn

Posted on by wkennar

Is there anyone quite like Anne Lamott?

Her latest book, Dusk, Night, Dawn: On Revival and Courage includes her answers to the questions many of us have but may be afraid to speak out loud. 

From the book jacket: “How can we recapture the confidence we once had as we stumble through the dark times that seem increasingly bleak? How can we cope as bad news piles up around us?”

And within these pages, Ms. Lamott gives us answers. Glimpses into the big and small. Rays of light and hope. 

Here are just a few of the many gems I marked with sticky notes while I read:

“I told them my stories of mess and redemption, because stories can be our most reliable medicine. I told them that, yes, it was going to be really hard to turn the environment around, but that we can do hard and in fact we have done hard before — World War II, vaccines, antibiotics, antiretrovirals. We are up to this.”

“So to answer my earlier question of where on earth we begin to recover our faith in life, in the midst of so much bad news and dread, when our children’s futures are so uncertain: We start in the here and now. That’s why they call it the present. We start where our butts and feet and minds are.”

“We excel during tragedies, bringing our best selves to serve the suffering in a devastated world, nation, community, family. We keep each other company when children or pets are missing, when our last auntie or old dog dies, while waiting for prognoses. Our human response to each other’s hurt and loss is what gives me hope, along with science and modern medicine. We rise up to help the best we can, and we summon humor to amend ghastly behavior and dismal ongoing reality. Help and humor save us.”

“Friends save us, service to others save us. Books, nature, community, and music save us.”

“People like to say all sorts of stupid bumper-sticker things that aren’t true and that in fact can be shaming, such as that God never gives us more than we can handle. What a crock.” 

“It is too much. You steadfastly love and serve everyone, see people through tribulation, savor the relief, and give thanks. Then boing — a new setback. It’s like tucking an octopus into bed at night: new arms keep popping out.”

“When people know you too well, they eventually see your damage, your weirdness, carelessness, and mean streak. They see how ordinary you are after all, and that whatever it was that distinguished you in the beginning is the least of who you actually are. This will turn out to be the greatest gift we can offer another person: letting them see, every so often, beneath all the trappings and pretense to the truth of us.
But can you love me now?”

“Love will have to do, along with bright and dim memories, some that still hurt, others that we savor like Life Savers tucked away in our cheeks.”