The thing with pain is that it is subjective. Unless we are talking kidney stones, which are universally known to be The Most Excruciating Pain Known to Man. And I know: I’ve had two. And I’ve been through labor for comparison. Hands down, kidney stones win the Pain Olympics.
Other than the kidney stone and perhaps the stubbed middle toe (also universally known to be really fricking painful–especially in the middle of the night), one person’s cramp is another person’s twinge. One person’s searing pain is another’s ache. And since pain is so fleeting and hard to pinpoint, much less remember, it is especially hard to know how to react to another’s discomfort.
When I was growing up, my father used to say, “Oh, that doesn’t hurt” to just about every malady from scraped knees to appendicitis. And while I’m not that tough, I am rather matter-of-fact.
Step 1: Acknowledge the pain. “Oh, that must hurt.”
Step 2: Get down to business. Clean it, add some medicine, put on a Toy Story or Curious George band-aid.
Step 3: Check in. “How does that feel? Any better?”
Step 4: Kick ’em to the curb. “Ok, now get back out there and watch where you are going this time.”
Because, really, pain fades. Time to move on.
But Big F is rather, um, shall we say, dramatic. A bee looks at him and he starts screaming “ow, ow, ow, ow!” When he hurts himself it is usually an all-family event while he recounts the injury and then complains about it for the next two days. Middle D is the opposite. A wasp stung him right below the eye at school one day. He came home that afternoon, said “it kind of hurt;” then, never complained once for the three days his eye was pretty much swollen shut.
This is probably also a good time to remind you that my husband is a nurse. Can I get an “Allelujah”?! I can’t tell you how lucky my kids are that their dad is a nurse and good at that stuff.
Puking kids? “Go get ’em, Nurse Dad!”
Ear aches? “Is it an infection, Nurse Dad?”
Bleeding of any kind? “Nurse Da-ad! We got a bleeder!”
Of course, I hang out with the pukers and clean the sheets and kiss the foreheads. Now. But I was not so good with it at first. In fact, I did not become an elementary school teacher for two reasons:
1. You had to sing in elem ed classes at my college. Solo. In front of the class. If you ever heard me sing you would know that would be a deal breaker.
2. I just assumed there would always be a kid upchucking in class. Like every day. I still remember Missy M standing up and vomiting orange drink all over Mr. Duffy’s science class in fourth grade. Kids puke. A lot.
Oh, but I digress. Anyway, lucky for me and my kids, I married a good man who can deal with all the ailments and illnesses of childhood.
So the other day, Big F, out of the blue started whining and saying his leg really hurt. And I have to admit, I was kind of dismissive assuming it was a scab that he had just noticed and decided should be painful. So I murmured something about resting a minute and I was sure it would be fine.
When the complaining increased in volume and interval, I advised him to ask our resident medical professional while I flipped the pages of my newest issue of some woman’s magazine.
Upon rolling up F’s pants leg and inspecting the patient, our RN found a giant gash in that fleshy part behind the knee. It was swollen and bleeding and looked, well, painful. Oops.
Big F wasn’t mad at me–he didn’t even notice. And Nurse Dad triaged the situation and got the patient back on his feet–and his bike. But I did feel guilty about not taking him seriously and assuming something didn’t hurt that clearly, obviously, logically, most definitely did.
It also reminded me that we think we know people, especially our kids, and so we make assumptions and act–and react–accordingly. While I still am never going to be Florence Nightingale, I am going to try to be more understanding and compassionate. And never, ever skip my own step one: acknowledge the pain.
That’s all anyone really wants, anyway.
