June 1, 2021 – Lately, I’ve experienced lots of . . . pain. Call me a wimp for my exceptionally low threshold—even for the needle that’s supposed to bring relief from pain. At midnight yesterday evening, when the ER nurse appeared to administer a shot of Toradol, I raised my hand and said, “Warning: I faint at the sight of a needle, so I have to block it from view.”
With a twinkle in her experienced eye, she said, “What needle?”
I’d exaggerated a bit. I’m fine with an annual flu shot, and two years ago, I barely flinched over a tetanus shot. When the availability of the Covid vaccine, I jumped for the chance to get one—actually, two. (I just learned, however, that a niece-in-law experienced hell with hers. Administered in the wrong spot (apparently), it exacerbated herniated discs, resulting in a two-month ordeal of pain and loss of feeling in her throat. The antidote: a shot into the back of the throat. “Feeling any better?” my wife asked me, after reading aloud her niece’s text.)
In the event my Toradol injection hurt momentarily more than any shot I’ve had in modern times, but it was nothing compared to the pain it was supposed to alleviate—an inflamed sciatica nerve.
Over the past few years, I’ve had episodic but self-resolved bouts with such “flare-ups” plus bad pain from a cracked rib. The current challenge, though, is a reminder that as time goes by, I’m growing older, more susceptible to . . . pain.
Pain is the great equalizer and source of empathy. One of my brothers-in-law is also experiencing sciatica-pain. Somehow, our mutual complaining works to our mutual relief, however brief and fragile. The bonus salve is a shared sense of humor. We compare notes over our “accomplishments of the day.” Does his round of scales on the bassoon warrant greater credit than my unloading the top rack of the dishwasher?
Meanwhile, another brother-in-law went to ER over something more worrisome than mere pain. His issue was addressed successfully, and while my sister celebrated, my stoic brother-in-law wallowed in enough “material” for his next day’s column and raft of limericks.
The leading character in said brother-in-law’s ER trip was an out-of-sorts, elderly, inebriate fighting tooth-and-nail to be released. The guy kept calling 9-1-1 for escape assistance. Finally, two kind-hearted cops appeared. “But the reason you’re here, sir,” one said, “is that you called 9-1-1 to be brought here in the first place.” This explanation didn’t work, so the cops dispensed more kindness until the character quieted down, convinced, at least, that the “rent-a-cops” (as the guy called them) running ER security were legit.
That was in Manhattan. My ER “people” in St. Paul were less colorful. The caregivers, however, were as kind, cheerful, diverse, humorous, proficient, and interesting as their big city counterparts, as reported by my sister and brother-in-law.
In the world of pain exists an abundance of empathy, kindness, humor, understanding . . . and help. May that always be the case.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
