mental health

A Million Little Pills

“Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.”

~Mark Zusak, The Book Thief

First and foremost, let me state that I don’t deny the existence of an opioid crisis. I won’t even deny the fact that illegal drug use runs rampant (as my state prepares to legalize marijuana use later this year). Is it a problem? Of course it is. Do I think it’s something that will ever get solved or even shaved down by government regulation? Not a chance. But I’m sure officials pat themselves on the back and raise glasses of champagne that they’re making a difference in the world. However, this isn’t a post about drug problems – not really.

It’s about the dominos those regulations have tumbled.

People with chronic pain fall into a category known as “invisible illnesses.” We walk around looking perfectly normal to everyone else. Because, unfortunately, pain doesn’t manifest on the skin. And it’s a different experience for each individual. Some people tolerate horrific injuries without a problem (and I envy them). Others? They learn to cope with the fact it feels like a steamroller ran over them fifteen times during the night. On a GOOD day, I walk around with a pain level hovering between 6-7 on that silly chart they hang in the ER. On a bad day? It goes up to 14 – and nurses roll their eyes when I tell them. They consider it an exaggeration, despite the fact I’m trying to convey the truth.

Fibromyalgia doesn’t process pain signals properly. It’s a centralized pain state, and my nerves can’t tell the difference between a stubbed toe and a severed limb. (I know, it sounds silly, but if you spent a day in my body? You’d get it) And trying to convey how I feel to ANYONE? Is frustrating. Even medical professionals get skeptical at times. And I’m not the only person in this situation. Everyone with a chronic pain diagnosis? They’ve heard these same words, particularly since the opioid crisis:

“Have you tried Advil/Tylenol?”

And all you can do is sit there and stare at them in disbelief. Really? Advil? Tylenol? It’s the equivalent of being told to rub some mud on it or walk it off. (And don’t get me started on that whole “exercise makes pain better nonsense”) Because when the new regulations went into place, they slammed the door on medications that helped us EXIST. And no one stopped to think about the consequence of that decision. They didn’t pause and ask if they’d affect someone OTHER than the drug addicts they wanted to target. No voice went up to say, “We need to make sure we have a plan in place for THESE people.” And no medications have emerged to help in the meantime. We’ve had no advocates to stand up for us.

“Have you tried Advil/Tylenol?”

Currently, I’m struggling with an “old friend.” And I go into surgery tomorrow to finally remove it. In the past? My doctor prescribed Percocet to help me sit, stand, and walk while waiting to get me into the OR. He (hell EVERYONE) could see the level of pain I was in. And this time? It’s no different. But the regulations? They tightened. So he uttered that sentence. As if I haven’t already been popping Advil AND Tylenol like candy. And when he asked if they helped, I admitted they weren’t. His response? “You can try a heating pad.”

Yeah, I’ve tried that, too. And willow bark. And chamomile. And soaking in a tub with Epsom salt and eucalyptus. I HAVEN’T tried stabbing a blade into my body to see if that would work, but I’ve considered it. Because that’s what pain makes you want to do. It squirms into your brain and takes over every thought. And when a medical professional hands you the equivalent of a Band-Aid for a hemorrhage? You collapse into a dark place.

“Have you tried Advil/Tylenol?”

This is where people with chronic pain end up. Depressed. Miserable. And – most of the time – refusing to seek help. What help IS there? The medical community has turned their back on us. They’re too busy congratulating themselves on “beating” the drug addicts. Instead, they leave their patients walking on knives, moving hands encased in thorns, and breathing with lungs wreathed in fire. And they shrug when we venture to tell them we’re struggling. Because attempting to DO something? It would mean they made a mistake. And they’re not willing to do that.

I’m one of the biggest advocates AGAINST drugs. I oppose marijuana. But this time? I broke down and looked into CBD. I’ve been in that much pain. Unfortunately, it would interact with my migraine medication, so it’s not an option. That’s what having NO options does to people, though. It drives them to a level of desperation they’d never consider. To a point where I’m removing an organ and agreeing to put myself into menopause – early menopause. Simply because I can’t handle this pain showing up every few months. And I can’t shovel down handfuls of Advil and Tylenol and wait for my liver to decide it’s had enough.

“Have you tried Advil/Tylenol?”

Every day, I hope for someone to puzzle out how to manage fibro. How to bring relief to everyone with chronic pain. But at the same time? I wish pain were visible to the world. If they could SEE what we feel, would they behave differently? Would they work harder to find solutions and ease what we’re going through? If we looked the way we felt, would people take us seriously? I don’t necessarily WANT to look the way I feel, but if it made a difference? As I stare down at the liqui-gels and quick-dissolve capsules in my hand that make up part of my breakfast – and snacks – and lunch – and dinner, I find myself closing my eyes and wondering if I’d hear something different if the doctors and nurses could SEE my pain level.

“Have you tried Advil/Tylenol?”

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