I walked the trail in the chill of the morning. I walked with my thoughts and my tinnitus and my pain, contemplating how easily we “understand” each other without actually being able to truly understand each other. We’re each having our own experience.
It’s pretty easy to think I understand my Traveling Partner’s pain. I have pain myself, and it is chronic and a substantial part of my experience. But, and this is important, we experience our individual pain quite alone. I can’t feel his. He can’t feel mine. Our sympathy, empathy, and compassion are built on our good intentions, our desire to be helpful and understanding, and our perspective on our own pain, which is what we know. Our lived experience may provide us with useful insights, but it may also limit our ability to truly understand.
… It’s fucking hard sometimes…
Yesterday I watched the Anxious Adventurer express understanding of my Traveling Partner’s pain – through the lens of his own ordinary aches and pains, as if the pain of a spinal injury would compare at all. I catch myself doing it, and although the pain of my persistent headache, spinal arthritis, and degenerative disk disease in my neck likely get me closer to real understanding, it’s still not the pain my partner experiences. I can’t know that, I can only guess, listen when he talks about it, and do the work of being humane and supportive and kind. It’s fucking hard sometimes, especially just accepting the fact that truly we can’t know each other’s pain.
… Pain sucks and pain management is complicated by our very broken healthcare system, in which doctors also seem to lose sight of how little they can actually “understand” a patient’s pain, beyond listening, themselves.
We’re each having our own experience. Don’t be a dick about someone else’s pain. You can’t know what they’re going through, really, and it isn’t a fucking competition. It doesn’t matter at all whose pain is “the worst”. Our own pain is always the worst we’ve ever personally experienced, and if all you’ve known is occasional sore muscles or stubbed toes, you certainly don’t know anything much about pain. Be kind. Be patient. Be compassionate. Be gentle. People are suffering and hurting. You can’t know what they don’t share, and you don’t know much even when they do.
I hurt this morning. The chill makes my bones ache. I walk on. It could be worse. I’m doing my best not to take my own pain personally. I have my own way of dealing with my pain. It’s not always effective but it’s mostly enough, most of the time; a complex assortment of practices, medication, and pure seething anger about being in pain in the first place. I push through when I can. When I can’t… I cry. Like… A lot.
… It’s hard seeing my Traveling Partner in pain. I feel so helpless…
… My own pain is barely managed day-to-day…
I sigh and keep on walking. I stop to answer angry frustrated pings from my partner, who is in pain. Pain shrinks his world. It’s most of what’s going on for him, until he has his surgery and moves on to recovery and rehabilitation. It’s a complicated journey. I wish I could do more. I try not to be a dick about his pain and the way it affects him…
There’s another work day ahead, then one more, and a day to run errands… Then I get a short (but very needed) break from caregiving and from my partner’s pain, before his surgery.
… I still have my own…
I take a few minutes to write and reflect. It’s not satisfying. My Traveling Partner is awake and pinging me and needing emotional support. This is a difficult experience and I do what I do; I push my own needs to the side to provide support. I’m irked with the Anxious Adventurer, who hasn’t figured out a morning routine that respects my partner’s need to rest. I’m annoyed in a very human way because this affects my morning experience too. This shit is hard.
… I stifle my frustration. None of this is personal…
This is an endurance race, not a sprint. I try to look at the morning through the lens of opportunity for growth… I just have to begin again…
Evening Light 