The Broken Soldier

Today’s the big appointment day.  Five of them beginning at 0930, ending around 1630.  Two with the physical therapist.  Two with social workers.  One with my primary care manager.  I’m not looking forward to any of this.

I woke up this morning with 5 out of 10 pain.  By day’s end, I expect to be close to 10 (or if Spinal Tap rules apply to quantitative descriptions of pain, perhaps 11).  This has been the way of things for the past week.  More activity is my theory, though it’s possible pain and activity increasing together is coincidence.

In a social work appointment yesterday, the nurse stated, “You really seem to be hurting.”  “Yes, I am.”  “No, not just physically.”  “Of course, ma’am.  This injury and the manner with which it’s been handled has destroyed me.  Am I angry?  Yes.  Am I depressed?  Yes.  Do I expect to be jerked around by those who’re supposed to be helping me?  Yes.  I’ve got the double whammy going.  Non-stop physical pain and disability working its magic on my psyche and my physiology.  I’m in constant ‘fight or flight.’  And of course, one of God’s little jokes, the presence of glucocorticoids, one chemical among many in the body’s chemical cascading response to stress, destroy SAM and HPA - the areas of the brain that regulate ‘fight or flight.’  Meaning the more stress, the less able I am, physiologically, to regulate it.”

She promised me the people here are here to help.  I think she believes that.  I would like to, and do to some extent.  But there are those who aren’t here to help.  They either don’t know how to help, or they don’t care to.  Functionally it’s the same.  And it’s what I’ve come to expect of Army medicine.  But today I have no interest in convincing the irrational skeptics (skeptics by ignorance or some other unsupportable suspicion rather than substance) there’s a problem.  Not today.  I’m hurting.  And it’s likely to only get worse.