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. 

Do You Hurry to Outrun the Pain?

By Carol Levy

I'm infused with impatience. I do everything fast.

I used to swim at the YMCA. I didn’t feel like I was moving quickly, but to others I was a speeding bullet knifing through the water. As soon as I stopped, to make my turn at the end of the lane, invariably someone watching would yell down at me, “What's your rush? Isn't it more fun if you enjoy it?”

Not for me. It's not just the physicality of moving swiftly through the water, which for me is a wonderful feeling. More important is getting to the end of the mile of swimming I try to complete, before something happens to trigger my pain.

I can't tolerate touch to the left side of my face, due to trigeminal neuralgia and phantom pain. Just the idea of a droplet of water touching my face terrorizes me, so I only do the backstroke.

One day a man asked me, “Is that the only stroke you know? I could teach you others.”

I didn't want to explain why I only did the backstroke, so I shrugged my shoulders and swam away. 

The backstroke works for me because my arms move in such a way that they don't fire off bullets of water that might hit my face. Regardless, I am always at the mercy of the thought, “Be careful! Finish this before you get hit in the face with a droplet.”

I'm impatient because I have to outrun the pain. I get to the Y early, impatient to get into the pool before others, so no one gets in the lanes next to me and splashes water on my face.

This is true of almost every aspect of my life. I shop fast because using my eyes too much triggers the pain. The faster I go through a store, the less opportunity I have to see things I want to see, but did not come to buy.

On rare occasions, I get sidetracked.  I forget.  I start to look at what else they have. My eyes start to travel up and down the shelves, and the pain grows to such heights that I fear my ability to get out of the store and drive home safely. So, I rush.

Before my trigeminal neuralgia, I loved to read. I could read a whole book in a few hours. And as soon as I finished, like the joke about eating Chinese food, I'd be hungry to start a new one.

Now I can read only a few pages at a time, skipping words, paragraphs, pages, looking for the dialogue that essentially explains the story. Who the main characters are and what their relationships are with each other, are lost to me.

I am impatient to get to the end. Not to see who the murderer is (I love mysteries the best), but to get to the end quickly, so the pain doesn't interfere.

I could go on and on with other examples, but they don't matter. At the end of the day, they all boil down to one thing: Hurry up! Hurry up! The pain is coming! The pain has started!

But I have to get to the end. The end of the swimming lane, the grocery list, and the end of the book.

There are changes we all go through, no matter our circumstances. But I think pain sufferers change more than most people -- and the changes are largely the result of trying to outrun the pain. It’s an impatience that’s very hard for those without pain to understand.

As for me? I used to be the tortoise. Now I'm the hare. Right now, I'm hurrying to finish writing this column before the pain takes over from using my eyes so much.

Pain makes me rabbit my way through life. The tortoise, ambling by, gets to look at the scenery. The hare in us makes it hard to stop and smell the roses.

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. 

A Medical Enigma I’ll Never Understand

By Pat Akerberg

I recently read Carol Levy’s column describing a medical enigma about a new pain-relieving medication. Carol and I both suffer with the same debilitating condition -- trigeminal neuralgia (TN) – so I was intrigued to learn more about it. Important to note that she has suffered with TN twice as long as I have. Bless you, Carol.

The new medication by Vertex Pharmaceuticals is suzetrigine, which the FDA is fast-tracking with a priority review.  For all the hype, it turns out that suzetrigine is only being studied as a treatment for acute pain and diabetic peripheral neuropathy.  Along with Carol, I had hoped this medication would be something for all of us in pain. Most especially since there hasn’t been any new pain medication for two decades. 

Here’s the medical enigma about the condition we suffer with that I’ll never understand.  Simply put, why can surgeons perform a microvascular decompression (MVD) brain surgery on TN patients when they cannot offer treatment for a bad outcome that might occur (and does 20% of the time)? 

And what happens if the neurosurgeon lies to you before the surgery and falsely claims that he/she can reverse any unwanted outcome? 

As background, I was struck with the lightning bolts of TN in 2009.  Because I wanted to return to work pronto, I chose to have MVD surgery in 2010 that was recommended to halt the horrific pain.  Instead, I wound up being harmed even further by the surgery.

Fast forward to the present, and I’ve been seen by 11 neurologists in my area who were all Ill-equipped to understand TN, let alone how to treat my worsened condition. 

So, I understand the rise of Carol’s hope and excitement about a possible new medication that might help alleviate the neuropathic pain we suffer with. The worst pain known to medical practice is TN, and the idea that using disappointing treatments like Tylenol or suzetrigine for it is truly unfathomable. 

But here’s what else I really don’t understand.  If surgery is allowed for TN, then why is the medical profession unable to deal with the unfortunate, damaging outcomes from it that happen to hundreds of patients like me? 

I’ve been told by neurosurgeons that training in medical schools for TN is woefully lacking.  Yet somehow performing surgeries for TN or other challenging conditions persists, especially for controversial surgeries that don’t have a good track record 6 months later. 

When I asked the neurosurgeon who performed my procedure what went wrong during the surgery, his response was: “No one ever told you that surgery was without risk.”

In other words, “You knew the risk and you chose to do it anyway.” 

Then he told me I should find a psychiatrist since I was so “anxious” about my unfortunate outcome. So much for his emotional intelligence and integrity (or competence for that matter).

Again, who wouldn’t be anxious if they underwent brain surgery thinking they would be rid of the wicked pain, only to wake up in worse pain through no fault of their own?  Imagine my shock afterwards when I learned he lied and couldn’t reverse anything that he claimed he could.

With zero assistance from him, I set out to contact neurological specialists internationally.  When I spoke with a TN neurosurgeon from Israel, he answered the enigma that has bothered me for years.  I’m paraphrasing what he told me, but here’s what he said:

“The United States is cut happy. The U.S. has a medical business model and, as such, they allow surgeries that the rest of the world would never perform given the susceptibility for harm in such a snug, vulnerable brain area.”

WOW.  That explained the run-around I experienced. It also explained why, despite my considerable efforts, I couldn’t get any pain relief (forget justice) for the harmful outcome I suffered with the phantom pain of anesthesia dolorosa.

Then I spoke with several TN experts around the U.S. after sending them my MRI.  Each one told me that since the detrimental outcome of my surgery sensitized my central nervous system, I would no longer be considered “operable” by most TN surgeons anywhere ever. 

Again, WOW.  I really need someone to explain to me why it’s considered okay to perform a risky surgery on someone when there’s no way to treat any disastrous outcome of said surgery.  My experience has been to blame me (the patient) with a neat, tidy self-serving explanation.

I guess it all comes down to how desperate one is to get relief from the pain caused by the “suicide disease.”  That desperation is then exploited with a buyer beware consent document.  

I’ve since learned that consent born out of desperation (or a lie) becomes absolution for the surgeons performing the MVD procedure for TN.  That frees those performing the surgery from their oath to do no harm. 

Here’s the kicker: After having done considerable research, I asked my neurosurgeon if any bad outcome could be reversed later. He answered “yes” in his fervor to ready me for the surgery. So, I signed the consent agreement based on his lie. 

Would you take on doing something that you knew could make a patient’s situation even worse, if you knew beforehand that you couldn’t do anything to correct it if something bad happened?  And who would be responsible if the outcome was bad? You or the patient?  Another enigma.

I guess the neurosurgeon from Israel was right about the American medical business model promoting “cut happy” surgeries that generate significant profits for their operating entities.

Interestingly, I also learned from my situation that conditions like TN are considered so rare that they are often relegated to teaching hospitals to give surgical residents training opportunities.

Even worse, regarding justice in the state of Florida where I live, one cannot sue a surgeon working for a teaching hospital. Why? Because the state owns the teaching hospitals and one cannot sue teaching hospitals owned by the state. Now, there’s a neat, circular wad of unjust enigmas further saddling the patient.

The medical enigmas abound with TN, and I suspect that’s also true with other painful conditions. So, it’s no wonder Carol chose to write about a much needed, yet disappointing pain medication that was fast-tracked to address a huge void in pain management. 

Another medical enigma that I’ll never understand: How is this whole medical approach to supposedly treating pain any different from a fox guarding the hen house?

Pat Akerberg suffers from trigeminal neuralgia, a rare facial pain disorder. Pat is a member of the TNA Facial Pain Association and is a supporter of the Trigeminal Neuralgia Research Foundation.  

A Pained Life: Stop the Denial

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

For many of us, pain is sporadic. Sometimes we know exactly when it will be start or what will set it off. Other times, it may hit spontaneously.

When my trigeminal neuralgia pain started in 1976, it was constant, triggered and spontaneous. Now it can be triggered by any touch to the affected area. Or it can come out of the blue.

When I don’t have pain, it often lulls me into denial. I’ll think, “Hey, I'm okay!” Denial is one of my defense mechanisms. I don't have the pain right now, so I won't have it. 

And then, like a freight train bearing down on me, the pain hits. That's when the denial ends. Sometimes it takes only a few minutes to recover, sometimes much longer.

Denial of pain also comes from friends, colleagues or family. It often results in an argument or anger. Does that change their denial? Not often.

Is it worth the hurt and emotional pain when we try to change their minds, when we try to convince them of the reality of our pain? Again, not often.

Many of us have had medical professionals refuse to accept our pain. Years ago, I found this note in my neurologist's chart: “There are days like today when I believe in her pain.”

It wasn't his to believe in or not. If he chose not to believe me, then the remedy was simple. Fire me as a patient. It is not worth debating with a doctor about the existence of our pain.  

A big pain trigger for me is eye movement. Any eye usage causes pain. I can read, sometimes for as long as 20 minutes, before the pain starts yelling at me and I am forced to put the book away.  

Too many times I don't want to give in to the pain. Just one more paragraph, I’ll think, or at least a sentence. If I try to deny the pain and continue to read, it grows stronger, bigger, a green hulk of pain.  

Then I have no choice. I fling the book away and wait, sometimes for hours, for the pain to subside to a tolerable level. I could have stopped the pain. I could have taken control over it. All I had to do was accept that I can't read for as long as I want. But, like a food addict, the pleasure I get from reading overwhelms my common sense.

For those of us struggling to stop denying the pain when we know we should, the denial only adds to our battle. We call ourselves “survivors” or “victims.” Those are words of war.

For me, the war isn’t over. If and when I win, I'll stop the denial. 

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. 

A Pained Life: Let the Words Flow

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

I ended my last column with my favorite saying: “You don't know what you don't know. And if you don't know what you don't know, you don't know what to ask. Our doctors need to ask.”

A couple of days later, I thought about the column and my second appointment with a neuro ophthalmologist, a specialist in nerve disorders that affect the eye.

I didn’t know that my parents were still carrying insurance on me, so I was going to a low-fee clinic in New York City, where I lived at the time.  It took almost a year, but finally one of the residents there decided I had trigeminal neuralgia. Even with a name for my condition, they still didn't have a clue what to do for it. Or with me.

When I realized that I could afford to see a private doctor, I returned to one I had seen years ago.  He referred me to the specialist.

The first appointment did not go well. He told me the disabling, horrendous facial and eye pain I had were caused by anxiety. At the end of the appointment, he patted me on the head, handed me a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug, and sent me home.

I was mad. Another "I dunno" exam that ends with a doctor saying, "It's psychosomatic." I debated if I even wanted to keep the second appointment, but what else could I do?  A feeling I think many of us have.

At the next appointment, I repeated my story of how the pain started, what it felt like, and what it was doing to me.  Again, he was unimpressed. He turned away from me, saying nothing.

Then, just to fill the silence, I said "You know, the other day, for a few seconds, I thought the pain was done and gone."

He abruptly turned back towards me. “What made you think that?” he said, the vehemence in his voice surprising me.

“Well, a lady on the bus inadvertently touched the left side of my face, where the pain is,” I explained. “And the pain didn't start. I was so, so happy. Until about 20 seconds later, when the lightning bolts came.”

The doctor walked over to me, and without missing a beat said, “I think it's time we brought you into the hospital.” I was startled and dumbfounded. In the span of a minute, he went from nonchalant to alarmed. I didn't think to ask why.

I was in the hospital for 52 days. After many tests and workups, they decided I should have brain surgery. The surgeon would cut away the numerous tiny little blood vessels that were wrapped around the part of my trigeminal nerve that gives sensation. The surgery only worked for three months, but it was a glorious three months.

Sometimes, it's the minor things: a change in the way pain feels, a new area of pain, or a change in how and when it happens. We may think, why bother the doctor with this? He won't care anyway. It's unimportant. If I tell him, he may think I'm a dolt or making things up. I’ll keep it to myself.

Which brings me to my second favorite saying: “You don't know what you don't know. And if you don't know what you don't know, how will you know if it matters?” 

Sometimes our deciding what a doctor doesn't need to know may be the one thing he needs to know the most. It may really matter. So let the words flow.

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.

What If Pain Had a Color?

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

What if your pain had a color? Not a color picked to honor an awareness day or month, but an actual color?

I could walk into the doctor's office. “I understand you have pain. Where is it located?” he’d ask. I’d point to the area. It was a bright chartreuse, as blinding as a neon sign.

“Oh yes. You definitely have pain. Let's see what we can do about that,” the doctor would say.

Wouldn’t that be simpler, easier? Unfortunately, it isn’t.

After the trigeminal neuralgia pain started near my eye, I was referred to a neuro-ophthalmologist. Our first meeting did not go well. The level of pain, the resulting disability, and its effect on me made it hard to tell my story in a calm and thoughtful way.

Stopping to collect my emotions, gather my thoughts and make sense of what made no sense, I started and stopped, my words coming in fits and starts. I struggled to control my emotions and not cry.

After a few minutes he stopped me. “Stop being so schizophrenic in how you're telling me your story,” he said. “Your pain is the result of anxiety.”

I didn't understand what he meant. No pain like mine could just be the result of nerves. He wrote a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug, but that only increased my stress, and the anger I felt towards the pain and medical profession.

Undaunted and with hope unfettered, I kept the next appointment. Again, he listened. He still seemed unimpressed with my pain and my story. But his interest was piqued by a birthmark on my forehead directly over the area of the pain. He noticed it would turn a brighter shade of red during various times of the appointment.

I was prissy back then. I hated cursing and embarrassed easily. He was not averse to using profanity, and just one or two words was too much for me. When he cursed, the birthmark would turn bright red. That changing of color and in the way my pain was triggered changed his feeling about my pain. He seemed more interested in it.

“I think it's time we bring you into the hospital,” he told me.

In those days, a doctor at a teaching hospital would be trailed by medical students, interns and residents. Like goslings imprinting on their mother, they followed the doctor everywhere.

When the group came to my room, the doctor wanted them to see how and when the birthmark changed color. He explained to them it was an outward sign of a neurovascular birth defect that he believed was the cause of my pain.

It was a teachable moment and the doctor liked milking it. He knew how easily I was embarrassed and how that would change the coloring of the birthmark. To get it to turn bright red, he jokingly threatened to expose himself (this was in the 1970’s). Immediately it changed color. I was so embarrassed.

It got to the point where all he had to say was, “I'm going to…” And like Pavlov’s dog, the birthmark turned bright red. He did that trick for his lot of ducklings, who were amazed.

My pain still did not have a color, but the changing color of the birthmark showed a visible, anatomic reason for it. It made my pain more real to others. If not for the birthmark and the trick of turning it off and on, the correct treatments might not have been tried.

Cancer patients have lumps or growths. Jaundice turns you yellow. Us? We have nothing but our word. Until pain has a color, our word has to be enough.

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.

A Pained Life: I Was a Platypus

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

Have you ever seen a platypus? The semiaquatic mammal from Australia that lays eggs and is duck-billed, beaver-tailed and otter-footed?

It’s hard to believe it is actually one animal. In fact, the first European scientists to examine the body of a dead platypus thought it was fake, made from the parts of several different animals that were sewn together.

To many doctors, people in pain are platypuses.

When my first symptoms of trigeminal neuralgia started many decades ago, a patient had to have three specific diagnostic signs.

The pain had to be spontaneous and triggered. Mine was. It had to be in a very specific anatomical area of the face. Mine was. You also had to be over 60 years of age. Or, if you were in your 40's or 50’s, you had to have multiple sclerosis.

I wasn't in my 60's and didn’t have multiple sclerosis. Therefore, because of my youth – I was 26 at the time -- it could not possibly be trigeminal neuralgia. “It looks all the world like trigeminal neuralgia. But it can't be, because you're too young,” one doctor told me.

Two of my symptoms were by the book, but the last one, my age, was like the otter's feet. I was a platypus.

Things have changed a lot over the years, The criteria for a trigeminal neuralgia diagnosis have changed significantly. The pain can have a number of different characteristics and the association with old age was completely wrong. Even toddlers and newborns can have it. Age doesn't matter.

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome and other chronic pain disorders have us presenting many different symptoms to our doctors that, on the face of it, don't make sense. Many of us complain, rightfully so, that the doctor didn't listen when we described our symptoms. Some may fit a specific disease or disorder, while others do not.  

The doctor seemed to listen, but heard only one or two of the symptoms while ignoring others -- the ones that didn't fit their preconceived notion of what we might have. Or didn't fit the textbook description. As a result, we often don’t get the correct diagnoses, and without the right one there is no way to treat the condition or pain correctly. 

When pain became a specialty of its own, when doctors started opening practices solely for those of us living with chronic pain, it seemed like a godsend. We would finally be seen for the singular entity we were -- persons living with pain --- not some platypus that doctors saw as too bizarre to be real. We would be legitimized. 

Unfortunately, since they started taking the “war on opioids” out on the chronic pain community, making us the villains, it seems our legitimacy was lost. 

We are not like patients with other diseases like cancer or diabetes, where the diagnosis is straightforward. We still have to fight to be believed, and to be heard.

It took time for platypuses to be seen as real, more than just an oddity of nature. Let’s hope that someday we will also be believed and accepted. 

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.

A Pained Life: Me and My Shadow

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

Pain shadows a lot of life's experiences. If I'm pregnant, at some point I'll think about childbirth – and the horrendous pain of labor. But to torture a musical metaphor, at the end of the shadow, the sun will come out tomorrow. At the end of labor, the pain stops, and the happiness of a newborn baby is the result.

If I'm going to have surgery, I may think about the pain that comes after surgery and during recuperation. But I can also be buoyed by the knowledge that at the end of my recovery, the pain of what brought me to a surgeon in the first place and the pain of getting over the operation will be gone.

When I have an appointment with a dentist, just thinking about the appointment is painful for me. The visit means triggering my trigeminal neuralgia facial pain as soon as they ask me to “open wide.”

There will be no sun, just shadows. The appointment will end, but the pain that was triggered will last for hours. I can’t run away from it.

Another dental appointment will have to be made, hopefully later rather than sooner, and I will be forced to invite the pain back again.

Is the pain awful when it is triggered or is it the fear of it being triggered that sets it off? Some doctors will say it is psychological and that fear is causing the pain, not the actual actions that trigger it.

Is this true? Sometimes I like to think it is. After all, if it is fear, then I can try and work on it in my mind, to release myself from its prison. If it is the pain, and when or how they will set it off, I cannot talk myself out of it.

There is no way to negate the reality of the pain or its triggers. The sun does not come out for us and the shadow of fear is not a metaphor. Pain is our reality. The fear of setting it off can be as dark as the pain itself.

That’s something that we and our doctors, colleagues, family and friends need to understand and accept as the truth of our life experience. And the reason we are often unable to participate in life.

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.

We Need To Do a Better Job Educating the Public About Chronic Pain

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

It seems the pain community is so sharply focused on opioids that we tend to ignore what may be a more important issue: getting the public to understand chronic pain.

I hadn’t given it much thought, but a recent conversation with a friend brought it home to me.

“Jennifer” believed that someone with gender or sexual identity issues could be helped through talk therapy, mindfulness and relaxation techniques. Basically, anything that would take their minds off their struggles with sexuality.  

I told her people in pain get some of the same suggestions.

“What you're saying reminds me of what many people say about those of us in chronic pain, that psychotherapy, mindfulness and relaxation techniques can relieve our pain or even cure it. In reality, they don’t,” I said.

“Oh yes, they can,” Jennifer replied. “You have pain management doctors who offer mindfulness, psychotherapy and relaxation techniques. So, you do have cures.”

I shook my head, somewhat in sorrow.

“No, people who have incurable disorders like mine, trigeminal neuralgia, or other painful diseases like CRPS, Ehlers Danlos, lupus or multiple sclerosis won’t be helped by mindfulness or talk therapy. Those types of things don’t end the pain or cure the disease.”

To my amazement, this woman who holds her convictions very dear, replied, “You just taught me something. I didn't know that.”

And why should she? It is rare, if ever, that we hear chronic pain conditions called by name. The media doesn't do it, and we don’t usually hear or say it in general conversation. The name of the disease or disorder, and the level of pain they cause, usually go unmentioned.

We do hear about back pain, knee pain and other “aches and pains” that can be helped by braces, heat therapy, relaxation, and so on -- which helps further the belief that chronic pain is easily treatable. That is not to say back pain can’t be as debilitating as other disorders, but it is so common that it is taken for granted.

I think some of the blame falls on us. Many people think we act like addicts when we clamor for opioid medication. We resist efforts to reduce the dose and refuse to consider other therapies, many of which we’ve already tried.

We ignore the reality that we do not have a “right” to opioids. We have the right to get healthcare when we go to the doctor, but they have the right to decide what therapy and medications they will prescribe, if any.

As long as we spotlight our need for opioids, while ignoring the public’s lack of knowledge about painful diseases and disorders that can’t be cured, the more I fear we will continue to be ignored and disbelieved. And the more we’ll hear about talk therapy and mindfulness.

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.

A Pained Life: We’re Not ‘Normal’ So Don't Expect Us To Be

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

I recently contacted a local social service agency for help. They sent a social worker and wonderful lady, Margaret, to come to my home.

The first thing she did was a “depression inventory,” a questionnaire required by the service. The questions were pro forma, and if I was a “normal person” were probably an appropriate way to see if I was suffering from depression. For someone in chronic pain, not so much.

Margaret asked me, “Are you basically satisfied with your life?”

The choices were “Yes” or “No.” The questionnaire allowed for no other answer.

No, I am not satisfied with my life. I am mostly housebound, due to trigeminal neuralgia pain and the fear of triggering more pain if I go out. My reasons for being dissatisfied with my life are legitimate. It is not a sign of depression, but of my reality.

“Have you dropped many of your activities and interests?” Margaret asked. Yes, if you mean since the pain started 40 years ago. If you mean more recently, then the answer is no.

“Do you often get bored?” Of course, I do. I am home most of the time. My eye pain interferes with reading, writing or even watching a movie if there is a lot of movement on the screen. I spend a lot of time with the TV on, as background noise, and sitting in a chair or bed waiting for the hour hand to move so the day is closer to its end.

That sounds like depression. But for me, it's not. It's merely my life.

“Were my spirits good?” Easy answer. See the above.

My neurosurgeon told me there are no more treatments or surgical possibilities for me. They all have unknown risks and it’s not certain they would help. So, when I was asked, “Do you feel helpless?” and “Do you feel hopeless?'” my answer was yes to both questions. Because my situation is hopeless and helpless. The medical profession has told me so.

Margaret’s next question; “Do you prefer to stay at home rather than go out and do new things?” could have been two questions for me: "Do you prefer to stay at home?' No, I don't. "Would you prefer to be able to go out and do new things?" Yes, I would, but the pain won't let me.. 

“Do you think most people are better off than you?” was the last question. And the hardest for me to answer. In one sense, yes, because most people don't have chronic pain and they're not housebound. But I am in good shape physically, absent the eye and face pain, and my brain and mind work well. I am independent. So no, they are not better off than me. 

It all depends on the slant of the questions and the slant of the answers. 

Most of Margaret’s questions are not intended for people in pain. I don't expect them to make ones specific for the pain community and I'm not sure, given the spectrum of chronic pain and disability, if that is even feasible.  

We need to be seen for what we are. We are not “normal,” so please stop expecting that of us. 

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.

A Pained Life: The Blame Game

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

Do you ever second guess yourself or play the blame game?  I did it again when I found myself doing too much.

While reading, my eye pain from trigeminal neuralgia started to grow and I thought, “Oh heck, I can do one more page.” And with each additional page, I repeated what has become a mantra: “It's okay. I can do it.”  

But of course, I can't. Not without paying a price. 

I finished most of what I wanted to do, my eye pain constantly telling and then yelling at me, “Stop already!”  

By the time I gave in and stopped, the level of pain was exquisite. I had no choice but to go to straight to bed, and try not to move my eyes for 15 minutes, if I was lucky, or an hour or more if I was not 

I do the same when going outside. I know a breeze, or even worse the wind, will again trigger the pain from trigeminal neuralgia. Any touch to the affected side of my face does. But I so much want to go outside.  

“Oh, the wind doesn't look that bad,” I’ll say to myself as I watch the tree in my backyard swaying from the strength of the wind against it. I go outside, the pain is triggered and I scurry back inside as fast as I can, then wait the 15 minutes to an hour before the pain calms down.   

The whole time I lie there and self-flagellate: “I knew to stop, but heaven forbid I should do what I know is right. I knew better. It serves me right.” And so on. 

Most people do this kind of thing. “I knew I shouldn't have eaten that last slice of cake, this stomach ache serves me right.” or “I knew I shouldn't have made that right turn back there and now I'm lost.”  

It's normal, for everyone but us. Because our lives stopped being “normal” the moment the pain took over. For me, “normal” meant reading for as long as I wanted, even for hours at a time; watching a movie and enjoying the brightness and movements on the screen; walking outside even when the wind is strong; or enjoying the feel of snowflakes falling on my face.  

My “normal” for the last few decades has been the exact opposite. 

We can't blame ourselves when normal doesn't work for us anymore. Our “new normal” is stopping before the pain gets too bad, being honest and saying, “I'm sorry. I can't do that activity or go with you today.” 

To me, my new normal is an awful thing, but the longer I try to deny it, to hold on to my old normal, the harder it is to accept. And it seems there is no time limit for how long you can hold onto the false hope that the old normal will return.  

The irony is that the word normal means “standard,” yet everyone's normal is defined by their own peculiar standards and needs. So, at the end of the day, there is no true normal for anyone but the one measured by their own internal yardstick.

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.

A Pained Life: Tincture of Time

 By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

“Tincture of time” is a medical maxim. Wait it out. Let's see what happens. Give it time. 

But when you have pain from trigeminal neuralgia, like I do, even a few seconds is too long to wait. Yet it takes time for pills to work. 

I don’t take my codeine prescription before the pain gets bad. I wait until the pain starts, then I take a pill. I hate taking codeine. It makes me feel awful, dry-mouthed and cloudy-headed. It takes about 15 to 20 minutes before it kicks in.  

Unless I let the pain get out of hand by continuing to do things that make it worse, I find my pain usually starts to calm down on its own, in about 20 minutes. The same amount of time it takes for the codeine to work. 

Maybe it's worth the wait. So many of us in pain are complaining, rightfully, that their doctors have reduced their meds or even stopped them completely. It's an awful situation, but one that may have some answers in the self-help column. 

When my pain starts, I no longer immediately head for the codeine bottle. I stop what I'm doing (which may not be possible for many of us), and wait the 20 minutes or so it would have taken for the codeine to help. And, thanks to tincture of time, I am better. Not always; but more often than not.

Tincture of time is one way for us to deal with the pain -- and simultaneously allows us to save pills for when the pain really does gets get out of hand.

It also has a downside. Many of us have lived with our pain for years or, like me, for decades. You get used to it, or as used to pain as one can get. I no longer talk about the pain unless I'm specifically asked about it. Then I usually just “pooh-pooh” it. I am so accustomed to pain that it is now a part of me. And I would rather not talk about it.

I do this with doctors. Any doctor that I see must know what my situation is, just by reading the names of the pain I have. They should know, so I don't make a big deal out of it. 

In that case, a tincture of time is harmful. I dismiss the pain even when I'm asking for help. They respond by not taking me seriously or thinking, “Well, her pain can't be that bad.”

Time can be an enemy or a friend. It may be the medicine we need or one that we need to ignore.

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.

A Pained Life: Do I Stay or Do I Go?

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

I have become housebound 90% of the time. I don't want to go out if the pain has already started. And if it hasn't, I don’t want to go out and risk setting it off.

I have looked for groups to join, online and preferably in “real life.” Each one I find invariably involves an activity that triggers my trigeminal neuralgia and causes eye pain.

I love to read, but a book club requires reading a chosen book within a specific period. Then at the meetings, looking through it as certain passages, paragraphs and pages are referenced.

I thought of trying to find a hiking or walking group. I need exercise and I enjoy walking. But if it is breezy or, even worse, windy or very sunny, those are triggers for the face and eye pain.

I adore cooking. But cooking groups require cooking together and reading recipes, which requires a lot of eye movement and usage, which are my personal recipe for causing severe pain.

Before Covid I found a local choral group. I wanted to be a singer when I was young and moved to New York in my early 20's in search of a career as a singer. But six months after I got to NYC, the pain started and brought a halt to all my hopes and dreams of a singing career.  

The choral group offered a chance to sing and, more importantly, to be with others who love to sing. But it is a horror in terms of having to use my eyes to read the music and to follow the choral director's hand movements as she directs the timing.

The other night we had a concert. We only go to nursing homes, so the audience is happy to see us and accepts that we are kind of raggedy. I was excited that I would be performing with the group, but I was also very afraid. I would have to use my eyes continuously and the lighting may be too bright (another source of severe pain for me).

Like many of us, I don't like taking opioids. I have found through the years that none work for me, so my doctors and I agreed on codeine. I take it because it makes me feel as though I am doing something about the pain, something that gives me a false sense of control over it, a small amount of succor. But it’s no help for the pain.

So what do I do? Do I tell the director I can't do the concert? That would be very unfair to her and the other members (there are only 11 of us). Or do I try to smile, sing and not grimace through the ever-increasing pain?

Most people's lives are based on decisions. Do I take the car or the bus? Do I have the steak or the vegetable plate? Do I buy the house or rent an apartment? Do I tell the boss I quit? Many of the decisions we have to make are often life-changing or life-altering.

Outside of decisions regarding medical treatments that have potential risks, our choices are rarely life-altering. And yet, they can be just as devastating. Do I go and make the pain worse? Or do I stay home and regret not going? Is it easier to hide from life or easier to face the pain?

That is a conundrum that has no easy answer.

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.

A Pained Life: My Teaching Moment

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

There are not many positives to being in chronic pain, or having the disorders and diseases that cause it. But I think I found one.

Being harassed for not being able to wear a mask was a horrific experience for me. No good could come out of it, I thought, until I realized it could have been a perfect teaching moment.

I complained to a friend, who also has trigeminal neuralgia, how upsetting it was to be mask shamed, and that I feared it would happen again.

Her response was to send me a business-sized card to hand out that explained why I couldn't mask.

It reads: “I have facial pain. Any touch to the side of my face causes horrific pain. That is why I can’t wear a mask.”

I liked the card, but didn't feel comfortable handing it out. I put it in a drawer and left it there. But then, at the dental clinic, I was repeatedly handed a mask and told, “You need to put this on.”

Each time I had to pull out my doctor's note and explain why I would not and could not mask. It became very tiresome.

Then I remembered the card. I thought it needed to be more explicit and instructive, so I made another card that says this:

“Trigeminal neuralgia is a neurological disorder of the 5th cranial nerve that gives sensation to your face. With trigeminal neuralgia the sensation is severe, often excruciating pain, on its own as well with any touch to the affected area of the face involved.”

On my next visit to the dental clinic, I was handed a mask. Instead of saying, “I can't” and having the back and forth of “Why not?” and “A mask can't hurt you,” I handed her my and card said, “This is why I can't mask.”

She read it and said, “Okay. You don’t need to mask.”

It was a perfect way to educate her about trigeminal neuralgia, and cut off the debate that often ensues.

It’s easy to make a card. The small size of a business card makes it difficult to do anything but present the most important parts of the disorder or disease we have. For instance, for CRPS it could read:

“I have a disorder called CRPS, or complex regional pain syndrome. It is caused by dysfunction of nerves that carry pain signals to the brain. It causes spontaneous and touch-induced pain that is often disabling.”

Of course, that is not a full description of CRPS, but gives just enough information to be instructive and hopefully understandable to those who ask why you can’t do something.

Handing out the card makes me feel good. It’s a teachable moment. Being able to educate others may be the best thing we can do for ourselves. 

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.

I Was Mask Shamed for Having Invisible Illness

By Carol Levy, PNN Columnist

For years I have worn shirts on which I write my political position. I love wearing them. And I wear them proudly. But since the onset of covid and masking, I have worn a different shirt that reads:

“Can’t mask due to medical issue. Trigeminal neuralgia. I have a doctor's note. I am fully vaccinated and boosted.”

This shirt I do not wear proudly. My medical situation is no one's business but my own. But to keep people from yelling at me, I wear the shirt. And it works. People are usually nice about it.

That was not the case when I went to my local hospital for a blood test. Since covid, if I needed to go to the hospital, I called first to tell them, “I can't mask due to a medical issue. Will this be a problem?”

I was told I had to get permission from administrators, but ultimately got the go-ahead to come in.  I’ve been to the hospital a few more times for tests. Each time they let me in with no or little fuss, so when I had to go the last time, I did not call first.

The welcome desk receptionist signed me in, no issue. The registrar signed me in, no issue. I sat for about 20 minutes, noticed by employees and ignored by them, while waiting for my name to be called.

Then a woman dressed in medical scrubs came over to me with a mask in her hand. She did not take me aside. She confronted me right in front of other patients: “You have to wear a mask or leave.”

“No, I can't wear a mask for medical reasons,” I told her. “In fact, I have been in here two or three times with no problem.”

She reiterated: “You have to put on a mask.”

“No, I can't mask. I have a facial pain disorder and can't wear a mask. That why I wear this shirt,” I said, pointing to my shirt.

Another woman joined the fray: “You have to leave if you won’t mask.”

I was getting angry. “I have trigeminal neuralgia. Do you know what that is? Are you nurses?” I asked. “If not, go look it up. I can't wear a mask. And I have come here a few times since covid with no problem about my not being able to mask. Do you think I like wearing this shirt?  You shouldn’t be talking to me like this in a public setting.”

The two women walked away, only to call me back a few minutes later, into a room that was still within earshot and view of other patients. A man in lab clothes had joined them. The woman in purple scrubs (I found out later neither she nor the other woman were nurses or medical people) held out a plastic shield, “You can wear this.”  

I felt defeated, but no one was going to force me to set off the pain by wearing a shield. “No, I told you. I can't have anything on my face.” 

She pushed the plastic shield towards me. “You have to wear one of these then.”

I was trying to remain calm. “Do you know what trigeminal neuralgia is? There is a reason they call it the worst pain known to man and the suicide disease.”  

She continued to insist, “You have to mask.” Then the man spoke up.  "I'm the lab tech.  I won't let you in the lab or take your blood unless you mask.”   

Finally, for some unbeknownst reason, they capitulated. Immediately after registration I was told to walk to the lab. The technician who stated unequivocally that he wouldn't let me into the lab or take my blood did both. 

It was a horrid experience, humiliating because it was done publicly. Mortifying in that I had to defend having pain from an invisible illness. Despicable in that I was forced to fight to stop them from demanding I make the pain worse. Just one more unanticipated horror of being a chronic pain patient.  

Had I said, “I can't mask. I have a lung issue,” and they saw an oxygen tank, chances are good I would have been left alone or quickly taken care of. 

But I said I had something they couldn't see and had never heard of. To them it seemed bizarre. “You can’t touch your face without pain?” That must be made up. 

In the world of covid, how much extra do we have to endure?   I ask myself, often, will there ever be a time, covid or not, when I won't have to explain myself?

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.