Things can get crazy during a bad pain flare. The “pain
brain”, as I like to call it, is in full affect and vastly limits my
capabilities. My attention span and patience are nonexistent. Every day of a
flare presents challenges, emotions, limitations, and frustrations that many
with chronic pain have to deal with regularly. I hope this list reminds you
that you are not alone, I am fighting with you, and it proves to be somewhat
cathartic as you read it, because it was cathartic for me to put my thoughts
and feelings down on paper.
1. Sometimes, there is no cause.
There isn’t always a moment where I know, “Oh, this is going to send me
into a bad flare.” If I did know that ahead of time, I would steer clear of
just about anything that could set my body off. Sometimes, I just wake up and I
don’t know if it is just a bad day or the start of weeks or months of
debilitating pain. There are times when I am in the midst of something where I
just know the next few days or weeks will be bad. There is nothing quite as bad
as knowing that whatever I am doing will cost me weeks to come.
2. I don’t know when it will end.
I have flares that last 2 weeks and others that last upwards of 3 months.
Sometimes I wake up and the pain has lessened and I am left with the “flare
hangover” of severe fatigue and brain fog. Given a few days and I can be back
to my 100%. (please note I said MY 100%, which is not the same as a healthy
persons’) Other times, I get admitted to the hospital. I receive infusions or
steroid treatments in an effort to break the cycle. I try new treatments or
medication combinations. Others, my doctor just tells me to rest.
3. It can go away as quickly as it came.
Sometimes, I wake up and the increased pain is gone. I return to my
baseline pain. Why? I don’t know. My body fought it off? My body adjusted my
pain tolerance and can now handle the increased pain? Who knows. But, I am so
grateful when those days happen, however they happen.
4. I don’t want to “waste” my medications incase
tomorrow is worse than today
Say I wake up at a 8/10 pain. I have abortive medications that can lessen
that pain and make it more tolerable, but, I am only allowed to take them so
many times each week or each day. What if tomorrow is a 10/10? I will be
kicking myself for using the medications when I was at an 8.
5. I wonder “why me?”
I feel like this doesn’t need further explanation.
6. It takes so many more spoons to do things than
when I am at my “normal”.
When I have no choice but to leave the house or do something, it is far
more taxing than normal. I can only be up and active for 2 hours versus my
normal 8. And if I am not back in my bed at my time of expiration, you can
expect me to collapse right where I am. Literally. Like, when the clock strikes
midnight and the carriage turns back into a pumpkin, the gown back into rags,
and the horses back into mice. My body goes from capable to incapacitated in
the blink of an eye.
7. I have ZERO patience. For anyone. For anything.
Being in constant pain wears on you. There is nothing I can do about it.
Having no social life, being unable to leave the house, lacking human contact
for weeks on end tends to make your tolerance run pretty thin. My house becomes
my prison. My pain the guard preventing me from leaving. Ask yourself, would
you be in the mood for any demands? Drama? Lack of compassion or empathy? Pushy
bosses or friends/family? Probably not.
8. I cry. Like, a lot. Often alone.
It’s okay. I am not saying this to make you feel bad. I am saying it so
you realize how difficult flares are on me, not just physically, but, mentally.
It could be my own pain, some sappy movie, or missing out on activities. I am
overly emotional and charged so the tears come far easier.
9. Sometimes, all I can do is breathe.
I can lose all my independence in a bad flare. There have been times my
mother or fiancée have had to shower me. Help me to the bathroom. Take care of
my dog. Help me put on my clothes. There is nothing that puts your pride in
check like having to ask your significant other to carry you to the bathroom or
wash your hair.
10. Sometimes, I don’t leave the couch or my bed for
days.
Sounds kind of pitiful, but, it is completely true. I get up to use the
bathroom and that is the extent of my physical activity. I will carry an armful
of water bottles to my nightstand or side table so I don’t have to repeatedly
get up for water.
11. I won’t eat.
I have no energy to do anything except exist. The thought of getting up
to go to the kitchen and cook something is excruciating. Calling to order
takeout would require looking at a menu, making coherent sentences to order,
and then answering the door. Nope.
12. I try to weight the cost of what I did in the
days leading up to this.
I try to figure out how much things will cost me in advance and plan
accordingly. Then, there are the flares that are unexpected, and in my opinion,
unwarranted. If I knew that 1 day of fun would cost me 4 days on the couch, I
may choose differently next time.
13. I wonder what I could have changed.
I curl up in my blanket and wonder if I would have went to bed earlier,
not eaten as much junk food, taken a nap during that long day, or just simply
said “no” if I would be in this condition.
14. I try to rationalize my pain.
It never quite works. I try to validate myself,
even though I shouldn’t need validating. I list the things I did the day
before, like a checklist, to determine if I deserve the rest I am taking. If I
feel like I didn’t do a lot and am in bed because of it, I feel guilty. If I
did a lot and am in bed, I don’t feel quite as bad, unless I had to cancel
plans or call in to work, but, that is another beast, entirely.
15. It’s not you, it’s me.
It really is. If you speak to me or see me on a
bad flare day, I am antisocial at best. And it isn’t anything you said or did.
It is 100% me. I am tired, hurting, frustrated, possibly guilty, and/or angry
depending on what landed me in this situation. It isn’t your fault and I am
sorry if I seem grumpy. I promise you did nothing. My body did.