I haven’t written in quite a while, partially because my
life keeps pelting me with lemons and partially because I’m too medicated to
think coherently most days. Six months ago, I herniated a disk in my back. The
week I was allowed to return to the gym, my main mechanism for coping with life,
I developed shingles on my face, and now I have something called postherpetic
neuralgia, which is fancy way of saying a painful itch that may last forever. If you made it through this paragraph and are still reading, I’ll count you
as a friend, because the truth is no one wants to hear a list of symptoms when
they ask how I’m doing. Granted, you didn't ask. But I digress...
Pain is a funny thing. Everyone experiences it, yet we’re
highly skeptical of it in others. We criticize people who we perceive as
whining or drug seeking, yet medicate our own pain with ice cream or television
or alcohol while simultaneously touting our high pain tolerance. And no, I’m
not using this post to justify developing a drug habit, although it seems like
a viable option. Most of the drugs I’m offered cause weight gain and
while heroin isn’t covered by my insurance, its weight loss benefits would more
than offset any inconvenience.
My friends and family tolerate my responses when they ask
how I’m doing. Then, since they are not ill and are thereby experts in living, they
gently offer tips so that I, too, can be well like them – relax, listen to calming
music, do yoga, think positive, eliminate gluten, eliminate red meat, use sulfate-free shampoo, take supplements. Not one of my well-meaning family or
friends suggested making it worse. Sometimes I wonder if they know me at all. Just
the suggestion of positive thinking makes me break out in hives.
In a move that seems counter-intuitive, this week I decided
to make myself more miserable on purpose. You see, relaxing and listening to
calming music isn’t all that great. It’s boring, and since I’m bored, nothing
distracts my mind from my extremely painful itch. When kids get immunizations,
they’re generally offered candy afterward because pain is all about perception
and kids are distracted by lollipops. I am too, but my jeans are already
perilously tight from lack of exercise so I decided to try a different method.
If I’m in more misery than my painful itch can supply, it by comparison will
not bother me as much. So I cranked up Eminem's aptly-titled song Desperation and hit the gym, relaxation be
damned. And it helped. Instead of sitting on the sofa relaxing (i.e. scratching),
my gym time motivated me to do some research (i.e. text my brother, the anesthesiologist).
And to my surprise, I stumbled across a real medical theory
that should be called making-it-worse-on-purpose (to make it easier to
search on Google), but is referred to as the gate theory of chronic pain. This
theory is simple: cause yourself so much pain that your nerves are incapable of
producing enough of the pain chemical to keep up – essentially beat them at
their own game. While the proposition sounds warped, I’ve actually considered burning
my skin with an iron to stop the itching, so I’m open to suggestions, even from crazies on
the internet. Yesterday I started frying my skin with capsaicin cream every few
hours and the pain feels fantastic compared to that horrible itch. I feel so
good that I’m awake at 4:00 am writing again for the first time in months. My
husband winces when he kisses me and says I burn his lips, but he really should
think positively – I can still make him tingle.
I already knew making things worse was cathartic. I do it every
day. I complain about my husband, my kids, and my life and I make myself laugh
so when it comes time to actually deal with my husband, my kids, and my life, I can
smile. My warped approach is endorsed by medical science and clinical trials. Pain is all about perception. If you can make it worse and still live
through it, in the end it’ll probably all be okay – well, after the hospital
bills are paid off.
