You can’t reason yourself out of pain

I started writing this column on Thursday morning, as I emerged from a haze of pain and pain medications. The day before, Wednesday, I had plastic surgery on my face to remove pre-cancerous basal cell lesions brought on by too much sun in my youth.

This was my third session. Originally I had seven spots removed. Then I had to have four of them done over, because the first session didn’t get all the suspect cells.

As surgery goes, this was minor – certainly when compared to organ transplants and amputations. As pain goes, though, this one was an eye-opener.

Another writer once sent me this line: “There is no such thing as a pain thermometer.”

That is, there’s no objective way to measure the pain someone is feeling. Sure, you can rank pain on a scale of one to ten. But, for the same ailment, my two might be your eight. Or vice versa.

Pain is intensely personal.

The late Robert Schuller, pastor and founder of the Crystal Cathedral in California, had a number of pet phrases. One was, “There’s no gain without pain.”

Tragically, that sets up an equation – pain and gain go together. Suffer enough, and God will provide the gain, whether it’s financial or emotional.

Medieval monks flagellated themselves with a miniature “cat-of-nine-tails” whip, believing that through pain, they could come closer to sharing Jesus’s experience.

British boarding schools used to beat boys unmercifully, to “make a man out of them.”

The “gain needs pain” mantra makes a virtue out of inflicting pain.

I argue that pain has only one useful function – to warn us that something’s wrong.

Pain itself has no beneficial effects. It does not make us noble. It does not make us brave. If it makes us strong, it makes us strong in spite of the pain, not because of it.

I was not prepared for the pain I felt when the anesthetic wore off.

The human skull has a very thin covering of skin. little more than a shower cap. That skin is laced with nerves and blood vessels — the reason your head bleeds so profusely when you bang it on a cupboard door.

Every beat of my heart pumped a pulse through those blood vessels. Right underneath all those stitches. My head felt as though it would explode. Each pulse of pain provoked other muscles — in my legs, my feet, my fingers — to twitch randomly.

I can understand now why some people in pain injure themselves more, just to provide an alternate source for their pain.

By the second and third surgeries, I was better prepared. My doctor prescribed some lowdose morphine pills.

Last night, as I lay in bed waiting for the morphine to kick in, I tried reasoning with myself.

Other people have worse pain, I told myself. Much worse pain.

If they’re trapped in the debris of a collapsed building, for example. If they have some forms of cancer. If they’re sold into sex slavery. If they’re constantly attacked for their skin or their religion.

At least I know my pain will go away in a day or so; theirs won’t.

Victims of torture have even worse future. And don’t kid yourself torture doesn’t happen anymore. The only thing torture victims can look forward to is that tomorrow’s pain will be worse than today’s. Because that’s what torturers specialize in doing.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

When someone’s in ICU, it doesn’t help to know that millions of others share the same virus. That thousands of other wives have been widowed. That other kids have broken their arm. That almost everyone over a certain age has arthritis.

All that matters is me. Right now.

Pain, in that sense, is narcissistic.

So don’t expect Donald Trump to turn into the Dalai Lama because he caught the virus that he scorned all year.

I hope — after people stop blurting, “Omigod-whathappenedtoyou?” – I can remember that it’s not my job to offer solutions. Or to judge whether someone is exaggerating their trauma Or to put their pain into a broader perspective.

When I feel better – as I know I will — my job is to hear their pain as they are right now. If I can offer comfort, if I can ease their pain, so much the better.

But it’s their pain, not mine. And only they know how bad it is.