Moments Vol. 1
Crying at the gynecologist, an unexpected friendship, and small-but-large kindnesses.
Living with severe pain heightens every experience, the good and the bad. You’re forced to become so aware of your body—every twinge, creak, flush of heat—that that awareness eventually extends outward. Rooms get louder, conversations seem more intense, every minute that passes feels weightier than it did before. You find yourself thinking more deeply and feeling more deeply, always somewhat on the cusp of crying.
*
My gynecologist is a fascinating woman, a hard nut to crack. She has a somewhat icy exterior and many Google reviews refer to her “poor bedside manner.” I’ve had to see her frequently over the last two years thanks to a cervical cancer scare that inexplicably has been the least of my problems. Every six months I’d go in so she could snip off a tiny piece of my cervix and see how things were progressing.
In the last year, her face started to soften and I found her looking at me longer, with growing concern. “Are you getting out of the house every day?” she would ask me as I looked down at my feet, uncomfortable with the sense that she was starting to see the state of things. I began to tell her, slowly over time, about all the different pain—the surgeries that left me worse off, the nerve damage, the very bad luck. She never said anything especially wise or reassuring, often shaking her head in dismay, but I could see so clearly from the way she held my gaze that she cared. It always overwhelmed me, a deep sadness lodging itself in my throat for the rest of the day.
The last time (cancer scare finally averted) it all came bubbling over. As I lay on the exam table, legs parted by stirrups and the low-grade pain of the colposcopy settling in my lower abdomen, she asked me how I was doing. I couldn’t handle the question, one that used to be so simple to answer. I tried to get words out and sobbed instead. The assisting nurse, lacking any context for what was happening, averted her eyes from me, perhaps uncomfortable with such an extreme outpouring of emotion. “I’m sorry,” I told the doctor, as if the weight of everything crashing down on me in that specific (and in some ways darkly hilarious) moment was something I needed to atone for. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, and it felt as if those three simple words had never been spoken before, a revelation for a mind so heavy with regret.
*
In 2013 I went to a New Year’s Eve party with a friend and met a guy a few years older than me who dressed in all black, clearly thought he was cooler than everyone, and had a sharp wit. That’s catnip for a 22-year-old who just moved to New York City. We hooked up in a bathroom and the next morning at brunch I nearly puked all over him and his more sophisticated (or at least well alcohol-trained) friends, dashing outside to dry heave on 7th Ave.
I had no idea then that that guy (who I’ll call D), a fledgling fuckboy at the time who was not a serious romantic prospect (a fact he’ll admit himself), would become one of my closest friends—that he’d one day show himself to be there for me more wholeheartedly than some of the people I’d known for much longer.
Earlier this month he called me to check in, reminding me that my much-delayed engagement party was supposed to be that day and he instinctively knew how painful it was to have to cancel because of how high my pain had become. The truth is, I had totally forgotten—storing it far away from my consciousness like all of the other missed opportunities and special moments I’ve been pulled away from over the past few years. I contented myself with the fact that B and I never really needed a party to celebrate our love, that we do that every day in small ways, still looking at each other in awe nearly three years after we met.
But my friend’s thoughtfulness, which had me holding back tears, gave me a new permission of sorts—to acknowledge that I was deeply sad to not be able to celebrate our love with our favorite people, however unnecessary it might be in the grand scheme of things.
When you’re in pain, you learn to live for the simplest pleasures—that first hour of the morning when the pain isn’t too high, exchanging voicenotes with a friend, going to an actual restaurant with your partner (even if you’re still in your sweats)—and try to suppress any yearning for more. But the truth is I miss the fancy dinners, the parties, the late-night convos with friends in a dimly lit bar—the little high you get from all those moments, even when you’re dead sober. In the simple act of calling to check in, D allowed me to not just acknowledge that feeling of loss but sit with it instead of trying to run (or repress it) away.
*
When bad things happen, people look for the lesson in it as a way to cope. On some level, I feel it’s the only way to survive, especially as a writer who often views life through the lens of a larger story. It’s been so difficult for me to face my chronic pain in writing because I don’t have THE lesson—I can’t wrap this experience up yet because I’m still so deep in it, but there have been lots of little lessons along the way.
One of those has been a shift in my appreciation for kindness—both received and given out. I’m so much more attuned to the small gestures, the little generosities from other people, as I’ve realized that they’re not necessarily commonplace—it takes a special person to not just show up but to intuit when you might need it. My capacity to be grateful has somehow skyrocketed even as my despair has increased.
Some of the things that bring me close to tears now might sound insane: The loose acquaintances who check in regularly, the local pharmacists who help me navigate insurance hell, the middle school best friend I haven’t seen in years who asks if everything is OK when I’m at the ER again, the doctor who will be on-call for me on weekends when I need it despite having three young children, the dermatologist who squeezes me in at no charge to help me with my stress acne (I’m desperately trying to control something, anything), my little brother rubbing my neck when the nerve damage is screaming, the friends who don’t run away from my suffering but hold it gently, B’s friends who practically cheer when I’m able to come out, the bosses who have made great exceptions for me—no questions asked, the strangers on chronic pain Reddit who offer advice, the physical therapist who says over and over to me “I promise you this isn’t forever” even when all the evidence suggests it might be.
None of these things sound exceptional but I can tell you that they are—an amalgamation of tiny gestures that act as a sort of life raft for me, keeping me afloat a bit longer when often (and I don’t say this lightly) the urge is to drown.
It's so hard to read this Jess. I'm sorry you are struggling. What is the most helpful thing I could do, from afar, as a sometime derivative acquaintance? You don't have to answer, by the way. Often, requests to help can themselves be burdensome.