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The Battle Within

Another day. The same aches and pains. When asked by the nurse, his answer is always 'just the usual'. The young nurse tries her best to inform him that most people aren't in pain. He reminds her that most people lie. Once we hit a certain age, some pain is to be expected. Sore feet. Sore back. For others, it's the knees, hands, hips and shoulders. For him, it's all of the above and more.  Fifty years of an autoimmune disorder plays hell on a body - but it's really all he's ever known. A truly pain-free day would be a disturbing surprise for him. He probably wouldn't know how to react. 

Sure, some days are better. Some are worse. But most days the pain is just there. Bad enough to let its presence be known, yet not so bad as to incapacitate him. This wasn't one of those days. 

The pain had been worse the past few days. He wasn't sleeping - and that always exacerbated it. Such was the constant battle waging in his body. It's how life had been since he was a kid. First, it was his hands. Then his knees. Then his back. The side effects of the different medications over the years were worse than the disorder itself, so he always gave up on them quickly.

A part that he found amusing - although his doctors didn't - was his inability to feel pain like most people. He had to be careful to not injure himself. Cuts, bruises, burns - all were usually discovered well after the fact. A broken toe might go unnoticed for a few days until he'd eventually bump it putting on his shoes. A quick jolt of pain, that just barely registered to him - he should probably get it looked at. Then the doctor would ask about the other cuts and bruises. His answer was always the same.

"I don't know. Maybe I did that when I was (fill in the blank)."

When he was a young man and fisticuffs were just part of his life, a blow to the head would usually just make him laugh - much to the horror of his opponents. He could be hurt - but it just never registered. 

He had been stabbed once, at work. He didn't even realize it until he felt his own blood trickling down his lower back. 

Yet the young nurses always asked the same question.

"Any pain today?"

Over the years, he'd outlasted a number of his doctors. Many retired. Some died. Some just left medicine entirely. Not a one ever offered any hope of a cure. Hell, they couldn't really even offer any real treatment. Year by year, his disorder grew worse. He'd always known it would. His grandmother had the same condition. Not unlike his inability to register pain like most, the old gal was seemingly immune to toxins like poison ivy and certain insect bites. The numerous doctors were fascinated by this but had no knowledge of any correlating factor. 

Their bodies just functioned differently than most.

A common cold or influenza would always hit differently. His body would attack itself full force. His joints would swell and ache. Exhaustion would settle in. His appetite would either become ravenous or nonexistent. That was yet another symptom that confused the doctors. There was never any consistent reaction. 

Another doctor retired. He'd liked this one. Real attempts had been made to try to treat the presumed causes of his symptoms. They didn't work, but he appreciated the effort.

His new doctor was practically a child. At his first office visit, he asked the physician's age. When told, he just laughed. He has shoes older than this young man.

The doctor's nurse asked the typical question. Tired of being asked, he insisted a note be added to his chart.

DO NOT ASK THE PATIENT ABOUT PAIN. HE WILL INFORM STAFF. 

Another year. The same aches and pains. Some new ones too. His system was now attacking his skin. His blood was simultaneously trying to suffocate him and starve him. His joints were stiff and swollen more often than not. 

The battle within raged on, with no end in sight. Yet, he refused to be a casualty. 



copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger

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