The medical technologist stopped, needle poised in my arm, and asked me a question I had never expected to hear:
Could I feel it? Did it hurt?
I told him of course it did.
And he told me most of his patients would normally be crying or groaning by this point in the literally nerve testing procedure.
I hadn’t so much as winced.
My eyes, dry. My voice, utterly silent. It’s not that I don’t feel things, it’s that I bury them deep inside me, wrap them in thick layers of padding and tie them all up with a confident smile, or if feigning confidence is beyond me, a calculatedly neutral—if a little serious—expression.
And while doing so carried me through rounds of nerve testing and physical therapy during the beginning years of my ongoing struggle with carpal tunnel syndrome, cubital tunnel syndrome, and thoracic outlet syndrome, it has also taught me how quick others can be to assume I’m lying.
There was the coach who told me an injured finger couldn’t be that bad and had me finish the game, then wouldn’t stop teasing me about how ‘it wasn’t a real injury’ even after my doctor confirmed that it was injured and needed two weeks of rest.
There was the nurse who asked if I was sure I needed a medical accommodation letter, despite the combination of three different medically diagnosed arm conditions she knew I had—any one of which could cause my hands to tingle, go numb, or sometimes stop working altogether in the middle of a writing assignment.
There were the college professors who thought their usual teaching methods would work for me, without modifications, because ‘my relative had carpal tunnel once and they’re fine.’
Each time I hear comments like those, I have to sit down and explain that my health concerns are no less real than they would be if they were externally visible.
I’ve been lucky in having numerous friends, family members, and colleagues who listen to and support me in dealing with these challenges. At the same time, it’s incredibly hurtful to witness the number of people who refuse to believe someone else is in pain simply because that person isn’t acting in the way they expect hurting people to behave.
If I cried every time my arms hurt lately, I would’ve been crying an average of at least twice a week, likely for a minimum of half a day each of those times.
I wouldn’t be able to function.
That pain is no less real because my eyes are dry.
It costs so much in time, in energy, and in lost opportunities to deal with even a very mild chronic health condition like mine, that the odds of anyone faking something like that are very, very, low.
It’s much more likely that we’re sitting there dry-eyed with a nerve testing needle sticking out of our arm.