It’s been two hours. I hurt from sitting up straight without anything supporting my back. My face feels tired from smiling and forced cheer. The paper of the exam table feels like sandpaper against the back of my knees, and I lost feeling in my hands after they asked me to squeeze and press and push and squeeze again, for some indeterminate test of muscle strength, when the problem is my nerves.
My medication history is nil at the moment; it’s been years since I’ve had anything prescribed to control the pain, and they know this. They’ve explained that they also cannot and will not ever prescribe pain medication for me—I’ll have to find a willing primary care physician. That’s deflating; why am I here?
They hand me a cup to piss in on my way out the door. No pain medication, hours of going over my history, and I still have to prove that I’m not on any drugs, just for the pleasure of their company.
The bill, before insurance, is nearly $1000 for the piss test. I’ll have to pay nearly $100 out of pocket.
The physical therapist wants to see me three times a week. My co-pay is $40 a visit. She talks of curing me in the next few months. I can’t decide what’s funnier: that I can afford $480 a month for physical therapy, that I can leave work early three times a week, or that I can be cured.
She cringes and recoils when she learns where my husband works. If he’s not with me, my physical therapy appointments only last 40 minutes. If he’s there, they always last over an hour.
I am soaked in a downpour earlier this week, fast-moving thunderstorms that overtake me on the way home. I lose track of the number of times I change temperature environment, going in and out of air conditioned buses and building, first dry and then dripping wet. My skin is now on fire, like I’ve been severely sunburned. But there’s no proof, there’s just the flinching if I am touched, the desperate attempts to find the softest clothes to wear, the effort at hiding my body from any direct air.
It is the middle of summer, but I’m bundled for late fall, arms covered and gloves on. My T3 is so ineffective as to be laughable, and it’s my own fault; opting—no, arguing—for the weakest opioid possible after my experience with the pain management doctors. To reiterate that I’m not drug-seeking, I’m not a junkie, I should not be judged or stigmatized, I am strong and only want the minimal medication possible to stop the pain.
I only want the minimal medication possible to stop the pain.
The pain has not stopped.