November: Pain

I spent the month of October in pain.  First an injury, and then an illness, each of which is particularly painful in their individual categories.  Not at all fun.  I realized how little physical pain I’ve had in my life, with gratitude and also guilt – how could I not have appreciate all those many, many days of feeling just plain fine?  I spent more days that I’d like to admit curled up in my bed, trying to work on one laptop and write on another, closing my eyes when I just couldn’t do anything but breathe through the pain.

I thought I had a high pain threshold.  After my two childbirths, I really thought I was strong.  In fact, those epidural-free deliveries were my benchmark (clearly a 10) whenever a doctor asked me to rank my pain on a scale of 1 to 10.  I was somewhere between 7 and 9, on and off, for most of October.  I’m still at 4 or 5, most days, and some much higher.

I don’t know about my pain threshold anymore.  I do know, in a way I never did before, that pain is its own country.  I have tremendous empathy for people who live with substantial pain on an ongoing basis.  Often I looked at Grace, trying to listen to what she was saying, her voice muffled by the ringing of pain in my head, feeling like I was across a moat in a different place altogether from her and my regular world.  A regular world I had never appreciated until it was stolen from me, replaced by this foreign place full of pain.  It is both exhausting and terrifying to ride the day-in, day-out ebb and flow of pain, the peaks of agony and the valleys of oh-maybe-I-am-okay-now almost-normalcy.  Every time I breathed a sigh of relief and thought, yes, finally, I’m on the road to recovery, something would flare up, and I would return to bed, eyes full of tears and heart full of fear.

It is the helplessness of it, as well as the emotional content, that shocked me the most.  I would get pulled under by a riptide of pain, unable to do anything about it.  And the incredible fear, that I had never anticipated.  I am familiar with emotional pain, in all its range, but I did not realize that physical pain carried with it a big emotional burden.  My mind would get on its hamster wheel: will this never improve?  Am I going to live like this for the rest of my life?  I can see how quickly chronic pain leads to immense depression.  I am not depressed, though: right now I am marveling, more than anything, at the power of pain.

My other observation is that pain is absolutely exhausting.  A few weeks ago I wrote about being tired, and about feeling quiet.  Some of that is surely seasonal, and the particular rhythms of my spirit and mood.  But the tiredness stuck around, persistent, thick, heavy, and I began to wonder if it was also partially caused by my pain.  Now I suspect it was (and is).  I am wading through thigh-deep snow these days, slow going, feeling spent, both emotionally and physically, more quickly than usual.

I read Kristin Noelle’s beautiful post last week with tears streaming down my face.  She writes of a harsh few months, of a demanding season, and of the release of finding herself in a soft place. These lines in particular moved me:

What if becoming (painfully, gut-wrenchingly, sometimes) aware of our fear is not always a sign that we’re far off from peace, but actually quite the opposite: a sign that we’re actually close enough to peace to start collapsing into it, to start admitting to ourselves or someone else how hard things have been?

Clearly, the ways that this last month have been difficult for me are more physical than emotional, though, as I said, there was a soul component that I had not expected.  What have this pain, and the pain’s handmaiden, fear, come to teach me?  I ask myself this over and over again, in the day and in the night, wondering, wondering.  Perhaps they are a sign, as Kristin says, that I draw ever nearer and nearer to peace.  I’d like to believe it.

Note: I believe, firmly, that both of my ailments were helped, not impeded (and certainly not caused by) the cleanse I was on.

7 thoughts on “November: Pain”

  1. Managing pain is one of the activities that most quickly drains our reserves of willpower and resilience. I’m always shocked at how terrible I feel when I’m sick, not just physically, but emotionally. We take our healthy, wildly optimistic selves for granted.

    But science reports that pessimists are more realistic than optimists; the fact that you feel like the pain may help you get closer to reality has real basis in fact.

    Nonetheless, I hope you feel better soon!

  2. Your beautiful words are an important reminder to be thankful each day for our health. It is certainly something I take for granted. This summer my mom tripped and broke both ankles, one requiring immediate surgery. Not only did she have a lot of physical pain, but the emotional toll was something she didn’t expect. As you write above, she found herself alternately getting frustrated and angry and sad by the 3 months she had to spend in a wheelchair. A great life lesson for both of us.

    I’m so glad that you are on the mend. The best of health to you in 2012.

  3. This is one of my favorite posts of yours. It’s so wise and so incredibly helpful. Thank you for reminding me that physical pain is its own huge thing but it’s also a call out to the soul.

  4. Whatever it all may mean, I wish you healing and soothing in body, mind and spirit—and I know together we wish as much for our collective situation. Here’s to a New Year of rising consciousness, rising compassion and a coalescing of well-being like a tide to lift all our tattered boats.

  5. This is still one of my favorite posts, ever and anywhere, on pain. You describe it – a world I lived in for a long time and still visit for extended periods off and on – in a way that is so beautiful and so comprehensive.

    I am so glad you see the gifts in it. I am reading “Finding Your Way in a Wild New World” by Martha Beck – you might like her take on the whole thing, too…

    Happy New Year, Lindsey, and thanks, as always, for all you do.


Comments are closed.