The Hard Things Land Us Here
It’s been a year and a few days since my mom went into the hospital, and by this time last year we knew that she had a tumour near her spine with very little chance of surviving surgery.
Last week, the right upper forearm pain that had been getting worse for a few weeks moved into my elbow and into my right shoulder. My whole body started to ache, and I spent an evening in bed and cancelled my plans to go to the gym. I avoided using my right arm for anything. It all hurt so much.
I didn’t make any connection between my mom and my arm until I went to my trainer the next day, who put me through a set of painful stretches and exercises and sent me home with a lacrosse ball and a roller and instructions to roll out my upper back, shoulder, and sides. I told her about how I worked with people who’d been in motor vehicle accidents, and how difficult it must be when people are in such pain from an accident to have part of their recovery sometimes require them to push even further into pain. Pain is what we want to avoid more of, when it all hurts so much to begin with. We talked about how emotions, stress, and trauma can be associated with muscle tension, and she told me about people who’ve transformed emotionally as well as physically after working through tension at her gym. When I left, the change in my arm was drastic - there was pain back in my forearm, but it was gone from my elbow and shoulder, and I could move my arm normally.
At home on Saturday with my lacrosse ball, I did some of the exercises, and the pain came to a point where it felt like either I would need to pull back from the exercise to give myself relief, or I would need to cry. I cried.
I thought of my mom and the pain that was in her neck and shoulders as she lay in her hospital bed. I cried. I finished the exercises and sat on my couch, weeping. I thought about my last days with her, and how much I wanted to go back to being next to her in the hospital. It was hard. It hurt.
How annoying to be here and saying a version of “The only way out is through.” But that, sort of frustratingly, is what I keep learning over and over again. When we allow ourselves to experience what is right in front of us, we end up feeling better. It’s hard to choose to hurt more, but avoiding what needs to be felt leaves us perpetually distracted and stuck, sometimes even physically.
After crying I was still sad, but I was back in the world. My body felt better. I was back to getting ready for Christmas and spending time with my family. I needed to feel the grief that was building up in me during this important anniversary, and my body helped me get there.
Sometimes on the other side of tension and pain is exactly the opposite - lightness, presence, contentment.
If you’ve been injured or live with chronic pain, I’m not here to tell you it’s all going away. But I do think it’s worth asking - If your pain had a message for you, what might it be?
What happens if you increase your willingness to feel what hurts?
If you really listen, what could you learn?
