On the Nature of Pain

Yesterday while heading down to Chelsea on the A train, a couple and their daughter boarded the A train at 59th St.   They may have been from out of town, heading back to JFK.  They looked eager to leave the hell hole that most non-New Yorker Americans consider The Big Apple to be.  The family carried two small suitcases, the man carried a backpack, heavily laden and slung over one shoulder.  The train was crowded, there were only two empty seats available. The woman offered to stand, but the man growled for her to sit down.  She slunk into the seat, staring straight ahead, her top lip quivering.  The man stood with lips pursed, not looking at his family.  The little girl opened a book and buried her nose in it.

That got me thinking about the nature of pain.  Everybody has it, though different degrees and species exist.  Most of us try to hide it, with varying amounts of success.  I'm quite accustomed to it, subject as I am to belly aches.  I'm no wimp-- I've completed two NYC marathons and dance ballet on pointe.  But the pain in my belly sometimes brings tears to my eyes and stops me dead in my tracks, nauseous, doubled over on a subway bench, unable to walk.

The funny thing about pain is others don't want to hear about it.  My own tentative attempts revealed:  a psychiatrist friend who assured me I was somatizing even as I described the lab findings, another person who denied my pain, saying, you don't have to be sick you know; friends who pushed food and drinks on me, not understanding why I can't indulge; real rejection by another friend, perhaps for someone simpler (does such a thing exist?)  I make excuses for them:  I'm good at sucking it up, though I know it sometimes shows in my face, the tone of my voice.  How can I expect them to understand, when I try not to reveal it?

Pain is pain, be it mental (the woman on yesterday's A train) or physical (mine).  As I looked at the woman barely holding back tears, I thought of each of our hidden pains. Preoccupied by them, we forget to acknowledge the experience of others.  But every once in awhile, a friend, a family member, a stranger acknowledges our pain and helps us endure.  Such people are rare.  They remind us to reach outside ourselves, to connect with others, and in so doing, they help us live through our pain.