The history of pain


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Photo credits: https://www.instagram.com/ax2mir/

Taking histories, writing them down, presenting them to your consultant — quite a tedious task as seen by us future doctors. But it’s so much more than that, isn’t it? Your narrative collides with that of the patients’ — like two meteoroids falling together, their paths colliding for a nanosecond in the eternity of time itself.

You’re taking a history of pain – any kind; abdominal, arm, any part of the body. You have a checklist in your mind that will help you reach a diagnosis and swiftly answer the consultant when he asks you to enumerate the differentials.

“Where do you have pain?”
“For how long have you had it?”
“Did the pain start suddenly or gradually?”
“Does it travel to any other region of your body? Yes? Where?”
“Tell me more about this pain. Does it feel like someone’s stabbing you? Or it’s a kind of heaviness in this area? Or it’s throbbing?”
“Does it get worse when you move about? Is it relieved by taking meds?”
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is it?”
“Does the pain come with anything else? Any nausea or vomiting?”
And a couple of other questions like these.

As a future doctor learning the basics, every time I see these patients, I wonder if aching hearts ought to be healed this way, too?

“My heart and soul are aching, doc”.
“Umm, I’ve had it for a while now. Ever since my son died”.
“It started suddenly. Like a strong current rising within my chest. Like something stopping me from breathing”.
“Yes, it travels all the way into the depths of my soul and then down to my legs. I feel very weak then. Like I can’t stand on my feet, you know?”
“It’s all of that, doc. It’s throbbing sometimes. And sometimes it feels like a heavyweight is placed on my chest”.
“Yeah, it does get worse. When I walk out of my room and I see his baby clothes lying in the laundry because nobody has the courage to pick them up, or his toys peeking at me from behind undusted furniture”.
“I came to you for the meds, doc! Make this pain go away!”
“1 to 10? I don’t know. Sometimes it’s 3, sometimes it’s 8. And sometimes, it’s 11. I don’t know”.
“Yeah, it comes with loneliness.”

So many pieces all at once,

in the blink of an eye,

in half a breath,

in a fraction of a second –

a little hole here, a bigger one there

because this is magnificent beauty; this wound

where the light enters you.

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