I don't like going to bed. Not because I'm a night owl but because I don't sleep well on account of my chronic pain. Only a year ago, it was impossible for me to lay on my right side. Now, I'm laying on my right side as I type in my phone these starting words.
I've spoken a little bit about my chronic pain before, but it's hard for me to talk about. There's a lot of shame that comes with it. An innate desire to just be better, but things don't really work that way. My worst days had me vomiting from the pain or becoming dizzy to the point of passing out. The pain radiated down my leg, spreading until it felt like it encased the entirety of my hips. I was embarrassed to struggle so much with basic tasks, that sitting and walking became excruciatingly painful for me. I was insecure when I had to ask people to walk slower so I could keep up, or to take a break for me when we had only been active for 15 minutes.
The most embarrassing thing though was that I couldn't explain what was wrong with me. I didn't know.
I finally conceded that something had to be done and went for professional help. They checked for ovarian cysts, spinal deformities, and broken bones. After an X-ray, MRI, and a cortisone shot in my hip, no one seemed to know what was wrong with me. I was a young woman with an excellent range of motion and debilitating pain.
After my MRI, the on-call radiologist thought I had a labral tear. I had never been happier to hear that I had something wrong with me. It was an answer though to a question I was beginning to feel crazy for asking. But then I went to an orthopedic surgeon who denied the claim. Months later, I was able to get a second opinion, and they too didn’t see a tear.
At this point, I had sunk thousands of dollars of my own money into understanding the source of my pain, only for me to end up right where I started—completely clueless. I started to wonder if the pain was real or if it was all in my head.
I was fortunate that at this point, my friends and family were noticing and took my pain seriously. I was acting differently. I didn’t sleep well. I struggled to get out of a chair. I was clearly trying different things to help. I went through an elimination diet, tried new yoga stretches that focused on deep stretching my psoas, and would wear a hip brace around my home. One friend said to me, “Even if the pain is from stress, it’s still real and it’s still affecting you. It doesn’t make you any less deserving of treatment or accommodations.” As hard as it was for me to believe her, I was glad she said it. And it was true—still is true. Pain is pain. Our body is crying out for help, and just willing it to get better isn’t going to cut it. After years of being in pain, I would know.
Nothing was showing improvement though, until I started my second round of physical therapy.
The appointment after my physical therapist said she might refer me to someone else, she told me she had an idea. She had me stand up and press the palm of my hand against my low back and glute. She pushed me, and I didn’t move. She had me remove my hand and pushed me again. I caught myself on the wall before toppling over.
My pain is a result of hypermobility. I can throw my arms out in front of me and hear my joints pop. I can bend forwards and backwards without a problem, but my pain persists. When I lay on the floor on top of my yoga mat, I can pop my hips by stacking one leg on top of the other. My pain wasn’t coming from an unstretched muscle—in fact, stretching was probably making things worse. My pain was coming from a muscle strain nearly three years in the making. My spinal instability was forcing the front of my hip to do all the work.
This explained a lot of my pain. Not just my hip pain, but all the pain that seemed to coalesce and radiate around it. Sometimes it was a constant ache and sometimes it was a sharp spike. My joints move around with such ease that nerves will become pinched. The sciatic nerve that runs down the back and legs fell victim to this a lot.
Unfortunately, there’s no real solution to hypermobility, only a management of symptoms. My physical therapist pulled up a diagram of the musculature around the spine and pointed around the vertebrae. There are little muscles there called the multifidus, and if I wanted to reduce my pain, I needed to strengthen them to stabilize my spine.
Much easier said than done. The muscles are incredibly hard to isolate, so I’ve been doing the same boring exercise for months. I’ve finally noticed improvement though. I roll over on my right side in bed, and I think about how I’ll never take for granted such a simple act again.
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