There is something about acute pain that lasts for days.
I went to the ER today to help with this now status migraine. It didn’t help. I only went because when you are in that level of pain you think:
How do I end the pain?
I can’t end the pain.
There is a level of franticness in it. The same sort of franticness that has me writing instead of thinking. Thinking… never a good thing in high levels of pain. That is what the poem is about, that damn thinking while in too much pain to handle. So I write. Even poetry. And it is the desperation that leads on to the ER because surely, someone, anyone can help… please?
But rarely does that help. Maybe a little. Maybe for a short time. But rarely well or long. Today not at all. I could go back… but the point? I think what they gave me made it worse, so there is that.
It isn’t fair, is it? To have this battle.
It isn’t easy. One of the things I think, at this particular moment of thought, is the least comprehended about chronic pain. That our bad days, are so very severe. That we, even we, can have pain well beyond our tolerance level. But we don’t have much we can do about it.
I’d cry. Sure I would. But that makes the pain worse. So don’t mind my stoic face, there is thunder inside.
So breathe. Breathe through the pain. It will pass. It always does. Into lesser more manageable pain.