CHRONIC PAIN: A Study
on the subject of chronic pain, how it is perceived by others, how chronic pain patients are perceived, and the realities involved.
I usually begin my sad tale like this: “First the earth cooled, then the dinosaurs died, then I fell down a mountain.” I tell it like that to make light of it, but also because the entire story has taken place over a period of 41 years. As of this writing, I am 55 years old.
The story begins when I was 14 years old and had a very bad snow skiing accident. I fell about the length of a football field straight down a mountain. My father, brother-in-law (Wally) and I were skiing the top of Mammoth Mountain (the Cornice) in spring conditions and the snow just gave way from under my feet as I stood at the top of the run. I'd been watching my father, who’d gone down the run first. Wally was behind me. All I really remember is something hitting me in the stomach and all the air leaving my body. I have the odd memory of watching myself fall from the top of the run down which I was falling. The next thing I knew, I was on my stomach, head down-slope and people were telling me not to move.
Now, before you ask what a 14 year-old was doing on a black diamond run, let me assure you that — despite being anything but an athlete otherwise — I was the best skier in the family. I was really good. Black diamond runs were a challenge, yes, but not beyond my abilities. So, honestly, I had every reason to think I could handle that run. The weather, which made the snow icy in places and mushy in others, was against me.
Once I stopped falling, I remained as I’d ended up for a few minutes, before carefully sitting up. I seemed to be okay. By that time, my father had made his way down to me. Wally didn’t come down the run, wise man that he is. My father told me to just sit still, settle down. But, after a while, I really felt okay… until I stood up. My stomach, sides, right leg and right arm, my back and my neck were all screaming at me as though an elephant had run me over. So I sat back down and Dad crossed his skies uphill in the snow in the universal sign for assistance. When the ski patrol arrived, they carefully moved me to one of their sleds, wrapped me up, and skied me down the mountain. I know this mostly because I’ve been told what happened; I really have no memory of it other than that there was a heavy chain under my head and snow was blowing in my face. They put me in the sled head-down (logically) so I was, basically, between the ski patrolman’s skies. Not an easy ride.
My next memory is of lying on a cot in a very cold room I took to be the ski patrol area. I was pretty much out of it so I really can’t say what happened next until I was at a doctor’s office. In those days, 1973, there was no hospital in Mammoth (there is one now) so the doctor was used to people who’d had ski accidents showing up at his office. They X-rayed me and found nothing broken so my father took me home.
The trip to Mammoth was, as usual, a family trip but I don’t know who else was in the car with me and Dad. I only know that I lay in the backseat and slept the entire drive from Mammoth to L.A.
Once home, I was taken to the family orthopedist who also could find nothing wrong with me other than some major bruising. Being a teenager, most of my complaints of pain were chalked up to me being a teenager. Since no one could find a reason for my being in pain, it was all in my head. And I believed that for a fairly long while.
My point in telling you all this? This accident was the beginning of a long, long, long journey to discover why I was in constant pain, to treat that pain, to attempt to fix the causes of the pain, and how I’m doing today. Watch this blog for future installments of The Story.
on the subject of chronic pain, how it is perceived by others, how chronic pain patients are perceived, and the realities involved.
I usually begin my sad tale like this: “First the earth cooled, then the dinosaurs died, then I fell down a mountain.” I tell it like that to make light of it, but also because the entire story has taken place over a period of 41 years. As of this writing, I am 55 years old.
The story begins when I was 14 years old and had a very bad snow skiing accident. I fell about the length of a football field straight down a mountain. My father, brother-in-law (Wally) and I were skiing the top of Mammoth Mountain (the Cornice) in spring conditions and the snow just gave way from under my feet as I stood at the top of the run. I'd been watching my father, who’d gone down the run first. Wally was behind me. All I really remember is something hitting me in the stomach and all the air leaving my body. I have the odd memory of watching myself fall from the top of the run down which I was falling. The next thing I knew, I was on my stomach, head down-slope and people were telling me not to move.
Now, before you ask what a 14 year-old was doing on a black diamond run, let me assure you that — despite being anything but an athlete otherwise — I was the best skier in the family. I was really good. Black diamond runs were a challenge, yes, but not beyond my abilities. So, honestly, I had every reason to think I could handle that run. The weather, which made the snow icy in places and mushy in others, was against me.
Once I stopped falling, I remained as I’d ended up for a few minutes, before carefully sitting up. I seemed to be okay. By that time, my father had made his way down to me. Wally didn’t come down the run, wise man that he is. My father told me to just sit still, settle down. But, after a while, I really felt okay… until I stood up. My stomach, sides, right leg and right arm, my back and my neck were all screaming at me as though an elephant had run me over. So I sat back down and Dad crossed his skies uphill in the snow in the universal sign for assistance. When the ski patrol arrived, they carefully moved me to one of their sleds, wrapped me up, and skied me down the mountain. I know this mostly because I’ve been told what happened; I really have no memory of it other than that there was a heavy chain under my head and snow was blowing in my face. They put me in the sled head-down (logically) so I was, basically, between the ski patrolman’s skies. Not an easy ride.
My next memory is of lying on a cot in a very cold room I took to be the ski patrol area. I was pretty much out of it so I really can’t say what happened next until I was at a doctor’s office. In those days, 1973, there was no hospital in Mammoth (there is one now) so the doctor was used to people who’d had ski accidents showing up at his office. They X-rayed me and found nothing broken so my father took me home.
The trip to Mammoth was, as usual, a family trip but I don’t know who else was in the car with me and Dad. I only know that I lay in the backseat and slept the entire drive from Mammoth to L.A.
Once home, I was taken to the family orthopedist who also could find nothing wrong with me other than some major bruising. Being a teenager, most of my complaints of pain were chalked up to me being a teenager. Since no one could find a reason for my being in pain, it was all in my head. And I believed that for a fairly long while.
My point in telling you all this? This accident was the beginning of a long, long, long journey to discover why I was in constant pain, to treat that pain, to attempt to fix the causes of the pain, and how I’m doing today. Watch this blog for future installments of The Story.
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