Recently I discovered there’s a whole shade of green I can’t see. I find that particularly odd since green has long been one of my favorite colors. However, while my mother and I were hunting through fabric shops for exactly the right material recover my futon sofa with, I was growing quite annoyed by my mother’s consistant choices of beige or taupe when what I really wanted was something kiwi-colored or brighter to brighten up the living room, which is painted a shade of orange that changes from peach to cream of orange through out the day.
It was actually a re-occuring argument. My parents kept insisting their car was green as well, but all I see when I look at it is taupe.
It suddenly occured to me that — o.k. maybe — two of them could be right and one of me could be wrong. Maybe. When questioned, it turned out that all of the greens involved were all in the same shade.
And to think, I might have gone the rest of my life without knowing I couldn’t see that shade of green had it not been for those series of small arguments so close together. After all, how am I to know what I can’t see? Or how am I to know if I feel something or don’t feel something everyone else does or doesn’t?
For example, over the last two years, I have come to discover a number of such things. I have always had pain in my hand when holding a pen or pencil longer than 30 – 60 seconds which is why I constantly have to readjust the writing utensil — so I can ease the pain for a little bit; otherwise I would have agonizing shooting, cramping, stabbing pain in my fingers and hand as I wrote. I did not know that this was unusual, that not everyone found writing to be awkward and uncomfortable until two years ago. My father asked me why I never mentioned it before and I said, “Well, I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
You know, in school they told us to tell if a person is hurting you and I remember that I was shipped around from specialist to specialist about my headaches and no one knew what might be causing them — sinus or something else? But fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome hadn’t been heard of back then and I’m sure my mother, the nurse, wouldn’t have believed me anyway — she once sent me to school with the Asian flu and the school had to call her to come get me and keep me home for a week. I think children of nurses weren’t allowed to be sick.
I used to believe that sufferers of chronic pain were actually more resistant to pain than other people, but only in the last year or two have I learned that it’s the opposite that’s true — medically. I still feel that we’re hardier mentally. I know people who think sufferers of fibromyalgia and/or chronic fatigue syndrome are whiners, who just cry wolf for pitty and attention, and I know some people who fit into that stereotype. However, I have found most of the copers, the ones who attempt to live day to day, go to work, have families, take care of their households, appear normal, and do it while in constant pain are hardier mentally than most people attempting to live day to day. The pain wears you down.
On one hand, I think my parents’ work ethic — go to work (or school) no matter how bad you feel — has been a benefit to me because I have managed to continue working despite the chronic pain and fatigue; I can push myself on because I was raised to do so. On the other hand, I think it’s done me a disservice because I have failed many times to mention when I was feeling unwell or what was hurting or how it was hurting or where it was hurting. Who knows what might have happened if I had mentioned the problems with my hands when I was young instead of waiting until I was in my late 30′s?
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