Tag / Medication

by Isla

Pain clinic

In which I’m not very funny

Last week I went along to a pain clinic appointment.

Middle-aged, male doctor, blunt opener:

‘I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know why you’re here.’

Not the most auspicious start.

The barrage of honesty continued. I had the wrong type of pain (he only does localised pain – one joint, for preference), and I was still under investigation so shouldn’t have been sent to him.

He’d mis-read my notes and wasn’t all that happy when I pointed out the mix up (‘I don’t make things up. I don’t lie.’) I upped the amount of solicitousness in my tone and added a hefty sprinkle of ‘I’m so sorry’, and ‘of course’.

I queried whether he had any advice on painkillers, and he assumed I was trying to scalp him for opiates:

‘You shouldn’t be taking opiates. I don’t want to see another drug-addled patient walking through my door.’

Pause.

I made an attempt to explain that opiates were all I’ve got, given that we don’t have a way to treat the muscle behaviour because we don’t know what’s going on.

‘My best advice is don’t lose your job. And don’t take opiates.’

Pause.

‘You’re well educated? You google everything? Know things better than your consultants?’

He’d nailed that one – I’m an inveterate googler, but I’m also wise enough to go into medical appointments with an open mind. It was rapidly closing in this particular appointment.

‘You could join a Pain Management Programme. There’s one here, but we don’t have a psychologist and you need a good psychologist, that’s what you really need.’

It was around this point that I crumpled into tears, thereby annoyingly underlining his point.

The nurse was sent for some hand towels (I foolishly seem to see consultants without tissues to hand), and the tone rapidly shifted from ‘honesty’ to ‘I really wish I could do something for you.’

He described me as ‘delightful’ and ‘distressed’ in his letter to my GP. I feel like I stepped into another century.

Dead end.

by Isla

Pills

In which I experience a difference of opinion

Pencil sketch of a Chinese lion by Isla Kennedy - Medically Unexplained

‘I never take pills,’ she says, with a look of constipated pain at the very thought.

We were in the bomb shelter of the GP, walls so plastered in paper notices that it’s beginning to look like a serial killer den.

She chose the seat next to me – ignoring the holy rule that thou shalt always attempt to leave a gap between you and any other occupant (a rule obeyed throughout the land in public toilets and transport services).

She also ignored my headphones and the ‘Vacant’ sign I keep plastered across my forehead when I venture out into the world.

It wasn’t entirely clear why she thought it was a good idea to advocate against pills to someone seeking medical assistance, who would surely statistically be more likely to be taking pills than your average person. Loneliness? Evangelical calling? Verbal diarrhoea?

My non-committal ‘hm’ has no effect.

‘I like to only put natural things in my system, you know what they say -‘ cue gurgling laugh, ‘- you’ve got to treat your body like a temple!’

I feel marginally affronted. I do treat my body like a temple. It’s just one of those temples with giant plates of milk on the floor surrounded by hordes and hordes of rats. Or one of those abandoned ones that’s all dusty statues, cracked floors, and inadvisable man traps.

Oh, and pills. Lots and lots of pills.

I tune back in.

‘… And I get this fantastic health tonic from that Chinese acupuncture place by the station, you know the one?’

I do know the one. It has a real focus in its window displays on curing male genital droop. 

‘It tastes foul of course,’ she continues, ‘but it’s just fantastic for skin!’ 

She runs eager eyes over my face in the hope of finding a skin condition at which to advertise. It’s one of the few times I’m cheerful about the ‘invisible’ part of invisible illness. She bucks back up, undaunted.

‘And it’s all natural of course. No pills. And you know, the Chinese are very smart and wise.’

Ah the sweet, sweet taste of reductionist racism. I find it amusing that traditional Chinese medicine practitioners in China are busy turning liquid medicine into nice white pills in order to increase their reputability. Here, the more eye of newt people can see staring back at them, the better.

‘And I just think that people really shouldn’t take so many! It can’t be good for the body, you know?’

At this point, my tolerance gauge blows a gasket. 

I finally turn to look at her and weigh my words.

You don’t take pills because you are well. I’m really pleased for you. That’s really lucky.

People who are not well sometimes have to take pills. Pills can help them manage their illness.

Pills do not generally cause their illness in the first place. Sometimes they have side effects, but these have to be measured against the impact of the illness.

I open my mouth to speak –

– Her name gets called.

‘It’s just ridiculous how long it takes to get a Pill check here, isn’t it?!’ She scoops up a pale pink bag and heads down the corridor.

When she walks past five minutes later, she wags a prescription slip in my direction as a goodbye.

Exit, pursued by a scowl.

by Isla

Hello Hyde

In which we meet a mysterious stranger

I have things a good deal easier than a lot of people. I don’t have continual, endless pain, I don’t have a permanent physical disability, and my brain more or less manages its chemical levels without too much intervention.

Some of the time, I’m okay. I can function, push through a bit of fatigue and get on with things.

But then I get a timely reminder: Mister Hyde is never far from the surface.

He emerges when I’m sitting in a meeting and twisted to the side, or I’ve been for a walk, or I’ve been sitting in a car or bus, or I’ve done something physical, or become stressed or excited or upset, or on a few occasions, he’s emerged when I’ve been sleeping – which is possibly his idea of humour.

Hyde arrives with an insidious cramping that creeps up and down my right side – from the muscles in my right butt cheek, all the way up my back, through my shoulder and pec, up my neck, and across the right side of my face.

He lingers and worms and burrows, pulling on nerves until the nausea builds and the pain ramps up. He’ll occasionally abate for a bit after I vomit, always the gentleman, but slithers back after a considerate pause. Ever the tease, he sometimes crawls along my muscles to chew at my calf, a potential precursor to him buggering off.

He usually rips his way back up.

Mister Hyde tends to stick around for two or three or four days, with little rhyme or reason to his presence. He’ll shut up a bit if I manage to chug painkillers in time and keep them down, but I can feel him lingering underneath, waiting for my bloodstream to empty. I lie on the floor (hard surfaces are easier to dig your muscles against), curtains drawn, waiting for him to leave me alone.

Mister Hyde is an absolute bastard.

He arrived when I was about thirteen, a curiously literal pain in the butt that would cause me to dig my rear against seat belt holders and the corners of cupboards. He grew as I did, spreading until now he sometimes flirts with the left side of my body, cramping a shoulder muscle or digging into my neck. A reminder that there is a whole lot of unconquered territory left, and that things could be a whole lot worse.