A Pained Life: How Are You Feeling?

By Carol Levy

When I meet someone on the street, we do the perfunctory, “Hi, how are you?” and the expected reply, “Fine thanks. And you?”

If it's a really good friend, we may start to have a true conversation about how we really feel: “Well, you know I've been going through a tough time lately.”

The friend may nod her head in understanding and say, “Oh I'm so sorry. Let's talk about it.” And then we do.

It’s different when I'm at my neurosurgeon or neurologist's office. When the doctor enters the exam room, he’ll usually say, “Hi Carol, how are you?” I reply, “Fine thanks. And you?”

My question to him is ignored. Unlike my friend, his response is not to ask, "No, Carol. How are you feeling? How is your pain affecting you?”

Instead, we go directly to clinical questions like, “Has your pain changed in any way?” or "Are the medications helping you any?”

In my last column, I wrote about wanting doctors to be able to feel what we feel, and to understand what it’s like to have the levels of pain that we endure. Too often, their words and actions indicate they truly don't understand or care.

A few days after I wrote that column, I was in my family doctor's office. We did the “How are you?" thing. He then asked me why I was there.

"I saw some bad blood work results on another doctor's patient portal,” I said. “It's been 2 months. I assumed she didn't call me because the results were good. But now that I saw them, I want to know what they mean." 

“Well,” he started off, “We see thousands of patients and we can't remember to follow through on all of them. You should have called her." 

If that was intended to make me feel small, he succeeded.

“Yes, your cholesterol is terrible You have to take statins,” he said. I told him I didn’t like statins. He didn't ask me why, but warned, “If you don't, you'll have a heart attack.”

My life has been hard, the chronic pain making it a gazillion times harder. I am virtually alone, which makes my life worse. “I don't have an interest in extending my life,” I said. 

I didn't say that to get sympathy. It's my reality. I did, however, expect a response --- a grimace, a nod of the head, or some words of concern or care. None were forthcoming. Instead, he ignored my comment.

When I asked about the risks of statins, he ignored that too, repeating what seemed like a scare tactic: “You'll have a heart attack.”

Had he heard and listened to my words, he would have realized that was not going to have an effect on me.

I had a few other issues. Each one was met with a quick one or two-word answer. I asked him for prednisone, a steroid, as it had previously helped my sciatica. “No,” was his response.

I explained how prednisone helped me before, and that I wanted some in the house for the times when the sciatica gets bad. “I don't want you taking a steroid every day,” he replied.

I hadn't asked or indicated that I wanted to take it daily. He just came to his own conclusion. I explained again that I only wanted it for the “just in case” days. Unhappily, based on his expression, he agreed.

Then the appointment ended. I turned away for a second to get my purse.  When I turned back, he was out the door. Without even a goodbye.

Not once did he ask, “How are you? How are you emotionally? How are these issues affecting you? How are you doing with your pain?”

As I thought about his indifference to me, a person with emotions and feelings, I thought about all of the doctors I’ve seen since my trigeminal neuralgia and chronic pain started. Sadly, I could only think of two out of 20 or more who actually cared about how I was, the emotional, psychological me.

I know every doctor, like every person, has felt what I felt. Not necessarily the depths of despair some of us feel about having pain, or the fear that we have on a good day that the pain is just lurking around the corner. No one is immune from those thoughts.

So many articles have posited that those of us with chronic pain have psychological issues stemming from prior events, such as childhood trauma, that caused our pain and disabilities. 

How am I feeling, doctor? Ask me. It may help you to understand me, my pain, and my other medical issues. And, just by asking, you may be able to help yourself be a better doctor.

Carol Jay Levy has lived with trigeminal neuralgia, a chronic facial pain disorder, for over 30 years. She is the author of “A Pained Life, A Chronic Pain Journey.”  Carol is the moderator of the Facebook support group “Women in Pain Awareness.” Her blog “The Pained Life” can be found here.