For over 25 years, I’ve faced the harsh reality of living with chronic pain. From failed treatments and grueling withdrawals to small victories and hard-won wisdom, this is my raw, unfiltered journey—told honestly, with a dose of humor and a lot of grit.
For more than 25 years, I’ve lived with chronic pain caused by diabetic peripheral neuropathy. It’s a condition that slowly chips away at your energy, your optimism, and your patience. I’ve spent decades trying everything—medications, alternative therapies, surgeries, and devices—clinging to hope with every new treatment. And while a few offered glimpses of relief, the truth is this: there is no cure. There is only learning to live with it—and sometimes, that means telling yourself to “suck it up, buttercup.”
My First Line of Defense: Meds and Magic Tricks
At the start, I followed every doctor’s advice. I tried gabapentin, duloxetine, and NSAIDs. Gabapentin numbed some of the nerve pain but left me foggy, dizzy, and drained. Duloxetine slightly lifted my spirits, but it didn’t touch the burning pain in my feet and legs. Nothing really worked, but I was desperate, so I moved on to alternative therapies.
I tried chiropractic adjustments that felt nice in the moment but didn’t last. I lay on acupuncture tables hoping for a miracle, only to leave feeling like a porcupine with no real change. Deep tissue massages helped for a few glorious hours, but the pain always returned. I even gave physical therapy a shot—not to stop the pain, but to keep my muscles moving and maintain whatever strength I had left. Mindfulness meditation, biofeedback, and TENS units all had some psychological benefits, but none of them were game-changers. They were band-aids on a bullet wound.
Oxycodone: A Friend That Turned Into a Foe
Eventually, I hit a wall and turned to oxycodone. It gave me real relief, at least at first. I finally felt like I could breathe again. But like so many others, I built up a tolerance. The pain never went away—it just got harder to control. By 2012, I was bedridden. For three years, my entire existence revolved around pain and pills. It felt like I was watching my life slip away from the sidelines.
Then came my birthday in 2015. I took a hard look at myself and decided that something had to change. I quit oxycodone cold turkey. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I endured months of emotional withdrawal and intense pain. But I made it.
And then Christmas 2016 hit me like a truck. I fell and shattered my shoulder, which led to multiple surgeries. The pain was excruciating, and despite everything I’d gone through to get clean, I asked to be put back on oxycodone. I was careful this time—kept the dose low—but I still needed it to function.
When we moved to Lake Geneva, I couldn’t find a doctor who would prescribe it. Just like that, I was cut off. Once again, I had to taper off and tough it out. And let me tell you, there are still days when I would give almost anything for the kind of relief that little pill used to offer.
A Glimmer of Hope: Technology to the Rescue (Sort of)
A couple months ago, I had a nerve stimulator implanted in my shoulder. After everything I’d been through, I didn’t have high hopes. But to my surprise, it worked—at least for the shoulder pain. I could finally move my arm without sharp, stabbing agony. It wasn’t a cure, but it was a win.
Unfortunately, my neuropathy pain didn’t get the memo. In fact, it got worse. The burning, tingling, and numbness in my legs became so severe that some days, it’s all I can do to get from the bed to the kitchen. Now my doctors are suggesting a spinal nerve block implant. It’s invasive. It’s risky. And I haven’t decided yet. After so many failed “miracle” treatments, I’m a little more cautious now.
Living With It, Not Losing To It
The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that pain doesn’t just affect your body—it wears down your mind. Some mornings, it takes everything I’ve got just to get out of bed. And some nights, I cry from frustration. But I’ve also learned that if I don’t find a way to laugh, I’ll drown in it. Humor is my lifeline. I crack sarcastic jokes about my pain because, honestly, it’s the only way I feel like I’m still in control.
Having a support system has made all the difference. Bob—my rock—and my family remind me that I’m more than my diagnosis. They cheer me on when I’m hurting and celebrate the smallest victories right along with me. Their love reminds me why I keep fighting.
The Final Truth: This Is My Life Now
I’ve stopped believing in miracle cures. That sounds depressing, but it’s actually liberating. I no longer chase the fantasy of waking up pain-free. Instead, I wake up knowing that I’ll deal with it—like I always have. And I’ll make it through the day the best I can.
Chronic pain may be a permanent guest in my life, but it doesn’t get to be the main character. I do. And when the days get tough—and trust me, they do—I pull up my big girl pants and repeat the words that have become my battle cry:
Suck it up, buttercup.
