Thursday, July 15, 2010

Pain and Pleas

The bad news is that it is supposed to go up to 92 today! AK! You
will come home hot and tired and cranky and I won't feel well either.

I feel sad because I know you love me, but sometimes, it seems to me
that you don't know how to show it. You were very kind last night
when you stretched my neck—I'm so sorry you banged your knee and sorry
I kept you up late! You were very kind when you read to me. I love
it when you read to me.

But what I mean is when I'm in pain. You often act uninterested or
unconcerned or unsupportive or unloving or unsympathetic when I'm in
pain. Maybe you're afraid of me because I get really grouchy when I'm
in pain. :-( I wish it wasn't that way, I'm sorry.

You don't USUALLY get grouchy when you're in pain* (though sometimes,
you do), and you probably just think I'm a big jerk or a big baby. Or
maybe you think I am faking it, or not in as much pain as I say I am.
Sometimes, you seem to totally forget that I'm in pain and act
surprised, even astounded, when I don't want to do something or can't.
(*I don't know how you manage that, I wish I could do it!)

What I would like would be for you to come and check on me when I'm
having a pain incident, to ask how it's going, to ask if there's
anything you could do to help. You don't need to "hang out" if you
have other things to do, but you could express interest and concern
and sympathy. If the bathroom door is closed and I've been in there a
while, you could even knock. I close it automatically, out of habit.

Perhaps it is hard to be sympathetic and supportive because my pain
and problems go on and on and on and get boring for you. It's WORSE
than boring for me—it's wearing and tiring and horrible.

One time I told you that if I'm in pain, you could say something like
"I'm sorry for your pain." I meant that as an example, but now, if you
think of it at all, you often say by rote, "I am sorry for your pain."
Sometimes I laugh, which seems mean, but come on! Couldn't you be
intelligent and sensitive enough to say, "It's really too bad you have
to suffer like this" or "Honey, I'm so sorry," or "That really sucks,
sweetie?" And, yet more difficult, I'd like you to say it like you
really meant it, not like a rote repetition, as if you CARED how I
felt. You could include a hug, or hold my hand, or kiss my forehead
or something. (Yes, you do occasionally say something nice.)

I am not saying you never do that—sometimes you come and stand beside
me or touch me, which is really nice—but that is only a small
percentage of the time. Other times, you start telling me something
totally irrelevant when I am desperately in pain and need of

Maybe loving me when I'm in pain is like kissing (or even approaching)
a fire-breathing dragon who has just consumed an extra large dose of

And I cannot entirely fault you for that, but dammit, don't you have
natural sensitivity to the suffering of the person you supposedly
love? You won't be much fun or much help to me when I'm dying!

If you have something to tell me that you simply MUST share right
after one of my pain incidents, you could at least acknowledge my pain
before you launch into something irrelevant. Otherwise, I feel as if
some seemingly petty concern is more important to you than the HUGE
pain I am experiencing.

You can be such a big baby yourself-- you love to collect sympathy
from me and others--but you are not always nearly as eager to dispense
it as you are to collect it. (I'm sure none of us are, including me).
Though I must say, you do often listen well to your mother (and often
to me) when she (or I) complain.

I know I am not the most sympathetic person in the world myself, but I
do try sometimes, whenever I have the strength, to administer
sympathy, scratching, rubbing, and hugging to you.

You're prickly with tiredness and feeling fragile, and I'm prickly
with pain and feeling frail, and we're rubbing each wrong instead of
right. I wish we could both be better at this loving and supporting
stuff—it's hard for me when I'm in pain, probably hard for you when yr
tired and stressed.

I don't mean to be hard on you, but sometimes I don't think you have
any idea how hard this is on me. Being in pain is VERY LONELY. Being
in chronic BAD PAIN is even lonelier. After a while, it seems that no
one cares or understands.

Now I just spent too much time writing this—I guess I was feeling
somewhat unloved, sorry.

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