So. Can We Not Take Others' Pain Personally?
There’s this great saying I love: “The Rain is Impersonal, But we Take it Personally.” How many times have we heard or said, “I hope it doesn’t rain.” In the 80’s and 90’s growing up in California, it wasn’t something we had to worry about very often- but when it did rain I do remember feeling like it was a personal offense to me because the big deal in the 80’s was having huge bangs as part of our “look”- and everyone knew if your bangs lost any amount of height, well, your day pretty much went to shit. We would run from classroom to classroom on the 1 or 2 days per year that it rained, using our Trapper Keeper binders to protect our hair from the intrusive rain. I mean, the nerve of the effing rain! We had spent so much time and effort and product on achieving a certain look…and this arrogant, narcissistic rain had the audacity to leak out of the sky like some perpetrator invading our lives, on a rampage to terrorize the hairdos we had painstakingly arranged perfectly that morning. Well, eff you, rain.
I hope the point I’m trying to make is obvious…. It’s not personal.
So I gave birth to Audrina 6 weeks ago. The birth was thankfully as idyllic as the ones I’ve been lucky enough to have before…. Quick, safe, and attended by both my husband and my doctor, who have been there for me every other time as well. I did have one small hiccup, however. The first nurse I was assigned was, in a word, challenging to have as a patient. (Read: “Nurse Ratched” from “One Flew Over the Cuckoos’ Nest”). I’ve never had a nurse be so chilly, so rude, so non-communicative with her patient on making decisions regarding her patient’s care. Not everyone has a warm and fuzzy personality, I get that. Maybe I was misreading her, I thought for a moment. However, at one point, the nurse rolled her eyes at me after I asked her a question and I glanced over at my husband, who is my sounding board-and his shocked face said it all; that I wasn’t over-reacting or having some kind of pregnant, hormonal delusion. This nurse was incapable of offering me basic human respect, and seemed totally uninterested in helping me make decisions in a positive and helpful way about my care. With wide, disbelieving eyes, Andrew bolted off his chair and went to find the charge nurse, who he spoke to and requested another nurse for me. (Which I did get, and went on to have a lovely birth with a kind and empathetic nurse.)
At first, I was confused by “Nurse Ratched.” Then I was semi-pissed. I mean, what the hell? I felt like saying, “Hey old lady! Newsflash: You’re in the helping profession, for pete’s sake.” Thankfully I realized before I opened my big trap that would just put me at the same level as “Nurse Ratched.” So I moved into “this must be a joke” mode, and waited for Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the bathroom and inform me I was on the MTV show “Punk’d.” I had to yank out all my tools and remind myself that whatever was going on with my “Nurse Ratched” ultimately had nothing to do with me, it was about her. Now, in light of several recent events, I have so much compassion and grace for her; I hope she gets the help she needs for whatever was going on with her. I truly wish her well.
Returning home from the hospital, I experienced another hiccup. I didn’t anticipate the magnitude of the physical pain after the birth. I have experienced this pain before, but I have never suffered quite as much as I did this time.
Without going into too much detail, I will say that there is cramping after birth as the uterus contracts back down to it’s not-so-pregnant size, particularly when breastfeeding. For reasons unknown to me, this cramping worsens with each delivery. Maybe it’s as simple as my uterus being similar to a 90 year old man: crotchety and tired and pissed off after birthing 8 babies.
Whatever the case, between that and the normal, expected breast pain welcoming the commencement of another breastfeeding season…. I was in some degree of agony for almost 3 weeks. (This pain is only supposed to last for a few days, but this was not how it was for me.) The worst part was, I ran out of pain medication and didn’t feel comfortable asking my doctor for more. I wasn’t feverish, and I wasn’t getting worse, so I reasoned in my sleep-deprived head that I didn’t have an infection. I figured eventually this would pass, and since it was only supposed to be a few days, I just tried to wait it out. I mean, shoot- I watch 20/20 and 60 Minutes. In this day and age and with the heroin crisis, I feel badly for doctors who have patients requesting more pain meds. I’m sure they want to help patients who are in pain, but it’s risky for them to prescribe more, knowing the prevalence of addiction. I didn’t feel comfortable putting my doctor in a position to make a decision on that, so I didn’t ask for more meds. I was also afraid that asking for a refill might be considered “drug seeking behavior” and someone might flag me at the pharmacy, or put up a “Wanted” poster of my face in case I was planning on selling the pills, or whatever it is they do when one requests a refill of a controlled medication.
Instead, I toughed it out. And it was horrific. Hot tears would stream down my face every time my baby latched on to feed as severe pain immediately tore through my abdomen. It felt like someone shoved a sword into my uterus and twisted it back and forth while 10,000 wasps stung my pelvis simultaneously. I’ve been in worse pain in my lifetime, but not by much. I was super fatigued from the constant pain- and by the third week, I was exhausted. Not from being up at night with the baby, but from being in so much continual intense torment. The cherry on top was I started having anxiety that the pain was never going to go away. I made such little notable daily improvement in my pain level that I began to literally live in fear that it might never get better. But it finally did. And though I feel like I have PTSD from the incident, I made it through, but I can assure you I wasn’t the sweetest person on the planet while going through it. Moral of the story? Next time I’m in pain like that I’m going to at least call and talk about it. Duh. I mean, no one gave me a gold medal for suffering through it, why choose to play the martyr? Honestly, I don’t think my brain was functioning on all cylinders, if I were in my right mind I can’t imagine I’d willingly make the choice to stay in that pain. I mean, I’m usually all about comfort- the kind of person who thinks “camping” is staying in a hotel that doesn’t have room service.
Not long after I was finally out of that pain, we had an incident at my kids’ school where two teens went missing. Like as in, they ran away together after a cross country meet, leaving their phones, cars and credit/debit cards behind them. Those teens were gone for 5 long nights, until finally they were spotted in a nearby town 13 miles down the freeway. They were picked up by the cops and returned to their parents. Of course, as was to be expected, there was lots of speculation as to why the teens went missing. Was it a social media game where teens are challenged to go into hiding for days on end? Were they sick of school, stressed out about life, and therefore planning to disappear? Were they dating and maybe told by their parents that they couldn’t be together, so they snuck off together like some Romeo and Juliet-esque “Montague vs. Capulet” story? We don’t know at this point, and really, it’s none of our business in my opinion. All we know is thankfully they were found seemingly physically unharmed and returned to their parents safely.
In the wake of that incident, my older 4 kids and I had some beautiful conversations in the days that followed. We were talking about how to treat the teens when and if they return to school. Specifically, what to say to the missing-now-returned kids. We discussed how some of the potential feelings those kids might be having could be fear, shame, and embarrassment. How they must be treated with love and kindness. How we don’t shoot our wounded- and I mean that figuratively, not literally. What should we really say to those kids upon their return to school? How about “Welcome Home.” Or “We missed you.” Or “We’re Glad You’re Back.” What they don’t need is a billion questions and judgements from others.
The truth is, often we don’t know what is going on in other people’s lives behind closed doors. People experience pain- whether physical or emotional- all the time, every day, and still are required to function. I think about “Nurse Ratched” and wonder what was going on in her life that affected her behavior the day I gave birth. Usually, the folks who are behaving seemingly the worst are the ones who are experiencing the most pain, and therefore need the most grace and love. It doesn’t mean I have to hitch my wagon onto someone’s negative energy or become someone’s best friend, and I do firmly believe in boundaries and detachment when necessary. However, it’s my job to remember that what connects and unites us is our humanity. Therefore, how about giving each other the benefit of the doubt and not firing back at someone who is being rude and clearly hurting? I’ve played that game before, and all it’s done for me is ruin MY day and affected MY serenity. Hard pass on that. We all have problems, and the truth is that lots of times, people don’t do things to us, people just do what they do.
When I was in that much physical pain in the weeks that followed Audrina’s birth, it was all I could do to force a smile when my kids returned home from school. Day after day, I was hauled up in my bed with my baby, a heating pad and a bottle of Advil that did just about as much for my pain relief as a container of Tic-Tacs. Even Andrew was so disturbed by my level of pain he said he would go to the pot store for me if necessary. (Uhhh, so anyone who knows my husband well would understand how out of character it is for him to make that offer.) He explained to my kids that this pain was temporary, and I would be back to my normal self eventually.
And you know what they did? The most precious thing I as a parent can learn from my children: They were sympathetic and they offered me unconditional love. They were genuinely bummed out for me. They didn’t hold it against me and drag a resentment around like a backpack full of bricks. They didn’t take it personally. They weren’t offended. They didn’t un-friend me on Facebook. They understood that my behavior had nothing to do with them; they didn’t cause it. They just accepted that I was temporarily not in a great space, and they loved me anyway. And when I grow up, I hope I can be just like them.