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I take the maximum narcotic dosage for a non-terminal patient. Narcotics reduce pain and elevate mood, but when they wear off, the pain comes roaring back, and I go into physical and emotional withdrawal. Such is my daily life.
For twenty years, I’ve been in pain from various sources. The first—and worst—was bilateral shoulder pain caused by rotator cuff tears and osteoarthritis (it was like having ice picks driven deep into my joints). I slept in a recliner because I couldn’t lie in bed, even for a minute; I walked with my arms crossed because holding them at my sides was unbearable. I had three shoulder surgeries that required a long recovery, yet I still can’t lift heavy weights, stretch my arms above my head, or pull objects toward me.
I also have bilateral knee pain that two surgeries didn’t eliminate, and I’m suffering from a failed hernia surgery (I haven’t seen a doctor for fear of Covid). My worst ongoing problem is soft tissue pain in my middle and upper back, pain that started in 2014, when I fell from a ladder and crushed two vertebra. This pain extends across a broad area, hurts every waking hour, and makes sleep difficult even with a Unisom, 15 mgs of Ambien, and 2,700 mgs of Gabapentin.
Due to pain and accompanying stress, my hands shake; my balance is poor; my body is tense and achy; I unknowingly hold my breath and then gasp for air; and I can only stand in one spot if I have something to lean on. Pain has adversely affected my strength, energy, alertness, memory, patience, optimism, self-confidence, reliability, intelligence, concentration, and response to stress. I am so consumed by my problems that I have little attention for the problems of others. For years, I believed I would learn to cope, but the opposite has occurred. When I heard a war veteran say: “Soldiers aren’t strengthened but weakened by subsequent battles, and live with the growing fear that they will fall apart completely, failing their friends and dishonoring themselves;” I was struck by how closely his response to battle reflects my response to pain.
Peggy, home, cats, online friends, sleeping pills, and narcotics save me from despair. In my world: To leave home for any reason is to abandon safety. Life without narcotics would leave me in torment, yet America’s War on Drugs threatens my supply. Even with all the pills I take, pain makes sleep so difficult that I get up a couple of times a night to read. Because I am constantly distracted by pain, and because worsening speech problems make it difficult for people to understand me, I am doomed to disappoint those with whom I speak. Speech problems even intrude into my relationship with Peggy, and for this and other reasons, I see myself as a terrible disappointment to her. She gives me her best only to receive my failures.
Online friends also give a lot while expecting little. For example, M___ and I share
a long history, a mutual respect, a dark sense of humor, and a life
beset by physical and psychological challenges. I
can write to her for ten minutes or three hours; I can be sad or silly; I
can write everyday for a week or not at all for three weeks; and, aside from Peggy, there’s no one I trust more. M___ was formerly social, and people were drawn to her. Unfortunately, Covid, a worsening speech impediment, and problems with memory and concentration, have forced her, too, into a life of isolation. For thirteen years, M___ and I have walked with linked arms toward a frightening future, there being nothing else we can do and nothing more we can give.