When Chronic Pain Finds Hope

Some of my she-roes are women who live with chronic pain. Day after day, decade after decade. Their endurance puts me to shame.

During 2020 – 2021, I experienced just a taste of what they deal with all the time. My chronic pain began with a single step. Most accidents around the home do not occur because of reckless behavior. They just happen.

But they may change our lives.

In July of 2020 — yep — on top of COVID year — I stepped into my garden and felt something pop. “Oh God, oh God! I’ve broken my blessed hip.”

What do you do when you cannot move without pain, but to get help, you need to maneuver toward the phone? You do it anyway. You limp forward . . . slowly.

After my frantic call, a friend drove me to Urgent Care where the X-ray showed no fracture. Thank you, Jesus!

“Probably a hamstring pull,” said the nurse. “Do these exercises.”

Hamstring — oh. Like football players sometimes experience. After a few weeks, they return to the game, fully recovered and able to play again.

I’ll be fine. Uh-huh!

After several weeks of the prescribed exercises and multiple helpings of Advil, I Googled my own info. No fast recovery for me. I contacted my PCP who ordered a CT scan. Then an orthopedic assessment. Multiple chiropractic visits. Weeping and gnashing of teeth.

No major issues on the scans. Nothing definite showing, but I was still in pain. And complaining to whomever would listen. Unlike my she-roes, I do not have a high threshold of pain — any kind of pain.

To continue working, I developed a kind of dance: sit at my desk until the pain screamed, stand at the elevated desk until spasms began, walk until the throbbing subsided, then sit on the heating pad.

Repeat.

Every professional told me, “Hamstrings just take a while to heal.” No one could tell me how long “a while” is.

DEAR GUSSY!

Sammy Watkins with his hamstring pull missed only three weeks of Chiefs’ games until he was back in action. I was already into three months and considered asking the Chiefs if they could assign me a trainer.

Those who suffer with chronic pain deserve a medal, at the very least — a crown of glory. Pain wears on the body, but also on the soul. It tears down hope and reminds us how mortal we are. No matter what good things are happening, the pain grinds an edge on life itself.

After ten more months trying various medications, exercises, and medical expertise, I was back with the PCP for another exam. But this time resulted in a new idea. More probing — ouch — but a clue.

Piriformis Syndrome. Evidently the piriformis nerve and muscle in the right cheek can affect the hamstring, smash down on the sciatica and cause all kinds of nasty problems.

This new diagnosis jump started my hope. Finally, something that made more sense than just “taking a while to heal.” Maybe this was the culprit all along. I did not know I had a piriformis in my back end. I ignore my rear cheeks until I look in the mirror to make sure they’re not getting fatter.

With a heartbeat of fresh hope, I started physical therapy and already feel a slight improvement. I’m committed to doing the new exercises and anything else they suggest, just to get my life back and feel better.

But the professionals also reminded me, “Once you hurt your back, you may always have issues.”

I will need to be careful. No more heavy lifting. No more excessive bending over in the garden. No more thinking I am invincible and “Sure, I can do that.” Shorter sitting times. I continue my rhythmic dance, and the heating pad is my best friend.

Our mortal lives can change in an instant. And I am fully aware my pain is incredibly small in the world of rheumatoid arthritis, muscular dystrophy, brain damage and other maladies. But it is, after all, my pain. I am working on being more like my she-roes with fewer bouts of whining.

In the end, total healing and recovery occurs as we enter the Promised Land of eternal Hope. Stepping into heaven will solve everything — every painful trauma, physical problem and emotional hurt.

For now, on this side of forever bliss, I can only pray for those who suffer daily, do my exercises and hope for the best.

Time to stand up and continue my dance.

©2021 RJ Thesman – All Rights Reserved

If you’re living in chronic pain, perhaps this e-book might help: Finding Hope When Life Unravels.

Finding Hope as We Sit Together

older handsBecause we have busy schedules, we rarely see each other. This boy child who has become a man in such a short time — my only living child, my Caleb.

Yet each time we are together, the emotional umbilical cord feels as strong as if it had never experienced a physical separation.

We sit in the living room, watch the news or a rerun of Pit Bulls and Parolees. We switch to ESPN and cheer for our teams. One day, the Chiefs. Another day, the Jayhawks. During the summer season, the Royals.

Across those few feet in my living room, the cord stretches. We are content to merely sit and be.

A certain joy exists when the child becomes an adult, and the two of us share the same space without hormonal teenage conflict versus menopausal Mama.

This peace is indeed a blessing. The sitting merges into a sharing of hearts, even without the pleasure of words. We respect each other’s space and accept our obvious differences. Although only two of us, we connect as family.

A mirror image happens back in my home town. When I visit my mother in Memory Care, we share the same bond. Though the roles are reversed and I am the child — we find a peaceful co-existence in the moment.

We watch television or not. We read or not. We sit silently without conflict, knowing that being together is precious.

Until I sat with my adult child, I did not realize the pure value of sitting with a loved one. No need for conversation. No stress to finish a chore. No desire to fix a meal or hurry anywhere. Just the quiet assurance that we are together.

The ministry of presence.

Each of us is aware a time will come when we cannot share such a physical space. A sacred communion. An extraordinary gift.

On either side of this juncture, I cherish the bond. Knowing my Caleb will one day leave, certain my mother will one day graduate to heaven.

And I will be left, to savor this fragile breath we have shared and find hope that in the future — we will again sit together.

©2020 RJ Thesman – All Rights Reserved

For more essays about Hope, check out Hope Shines.