Here’s a strange story: One day two summers ago, I woke up because my arms — both of them — hurt. Not the way they do when you’ve slept in a funny position, but as if the tendons in my forearms and hands were moving through mud. What felt like sharp electric shocks kept sparking in my fingers and sometimes up the inside of my biceps and across my chest. Holding anything was excruciating: a cup, a toothbrush, my phone. Even doing nothing was miserable. It hurt when I sat with my hands in my lap, when I stood, when I lay flat on the bed or on my side. The slightest pressure — a bedsheet, a watch band, a bra strap — was intolerable.
It was August, and every doctor seemed to be away on vacation. The ones I did manage to see were politely stumped. It wasn’t carpal tunnel, tennis elbow or any other injury they could identify. I did nothing unusual the day before: an hour of work on my laptop, followed by a visit with a friend. We sat in her backyard and talked.
For the first few weeks, I could barely sleep. Over the following months, I lost weight — almost a pound a week. I couldn’t drive, or cook, or use my laptop for work, or even hold a book or a pen. I would have been bored, except the pain was so tiring that I could barely function. I spent the days shuffling around the house listening to audiobooks and doing voice-to-text searches for “nerve pain arms” with my phone flat on the table, then carefully, painfully, scrolling through the results.
I think we’re past the point where I have to explain that chronic pain is not the result of imbalanced humors or a wandering uterus or possession by demons. But for more modern skeptics, this is where I should add that chronic pain also isn’t just “all in your head” or “not really that bad” — or any of the other ways in which people who suffer from it are still regularly gaslit and dismissed.
Personally, I never had to contend with not being believed, almost certainly because I’m an otherwise healthy, reasonably well-off white woman with a clean medical history and no significant record of anxiety or depression. Instead, I was taken seriously. A whole gamut of tests was run. My wrists were X-rayed. I had an M.R.I. on my cervical spine. Each new doctor ordered new blood tests: some for vitamin deficiencies, others for autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid arthritis.
But when none of those tests could point to an obvious cause, I fell into the mystery bucket. Not the fascinating, fun kind of mystery that gets solved by a medical savant. This was the other kind, in which you are punted from doctor to doctor until you run out of specialists, who, this being real life, are far too overscheduled to fixate on one patient’s oddball symptoms.