Truest love: a caregiver learns from his wife's pain

On our honeymoon in 1973, my wife and I backpacked for miles and miles across the Continental Divide. Sherrie had earned a physical education degree, and for 5 years afterward she taught hundreds of aerobics and cross-country ski classes.

Then, in 1985, the intruder came--and confined her to a living room chair.

In Sherrie's case, the intruder bore many names, including chronic pain, fibromyalgia, arthritis, degenerative disc disease and depression. Pain infiltrated my wife's body and our home when Sherrie was only 32 years old. Now, 20 years later, the intruder has evolved into our unwanted, unruly and unkind roommate.

Powerful Adversary

Pain becomes chronic when it lasts longer than 6 months and is not relieved by medical or surgical care. According to www.WebMD Health.com, an estimated 15-33 percent of Americans suffer from chronic pain. That adds up to as many as 70 million people.

That's only a small part of the story, though. What about those millions of people who love the pain sufferers? This story is really about those who are indirectly impacted by chronic pain, especially those "caregivers" (as I'll call them) who live with the pain sufferer.

I often ask caregivers what their particular intruder has robbed from them. They most often say money, joy, sex, career advancement, laughter, dreams and freedom. The sad fact is, even though they know how to address the physical aspects of their loved one's chronic pain, how to deal with the emotional and relational aspects is not as plain for them. Too many caregivers follow one of two paths, both leading away from growth--both theirs and their partner's.

Noble Selfishness

One path is to be a spectator. It's the other person's problem, they think. Early on, I avoided Sherrie's pain by immersing myself ill career and community activities. I also steered clear of even talking about the topic of Sherrie's pain.

Another path, which I took later, is to become a classic caretaker who tries to do everything for the person in pain.

On that path, I felt like John Wayne sporting a happy-face mask. I manhandled all of our family's issues while refusing to admit there were problems at the homestead. I tried to be Sherrie's breadwinner, husband, buddy, housekeeper, baby-sitter (we have three kids), accountant, chauffeur, counselor and cook, among other things. I was the martyr society loves.

Once, a female friend from church offered to recruit teams of volunteers to provide meals, housecleaning and baby-sitting on a regular basis. "John Wayne" declined the offer. Later that night, when Sherrie learned what had happened, she said, "Call her right now--we're dying." Talk about sick. I had been willing to let our relationship die rather titan admit we (or, more specifically, I) needed help.

There is a third, less-traveled path that I believe helps both the caregiver and pain sufferer deal with the intruder. I call it "noble selfishness."

I finally called my church friend, and the volunteers' outpouring of kindness helped save our marriage. My "selfish" aim bumbling act of seeking assistance proved noble for our family.

A noble selfishness recognizes that one person can't be everything for another.

Before the intruder arrived, Sherrie and I loved to cross-country ski. When the first snowflakes of the season fell, I would put the ski rack on the car and get the skis out of storage. We would be primed, waiting for the trails to grow deep in snowfall.

For a few years after pain entered our marriage, I left the ski rack and skis in storage year-round. Sherrie encouraged me to go with a friend many times, but I always declined, feeling guilty for even considering such a selfish act. Finally, she grabbed my shirt collar and said through gritted teeth, "Get out of the house, go skiing, have some fun. You're old and grumpy, and you're driving the kids and me crazy." My afternoon (and many more afterward) spent with a buddy proved medicinal for my whole family and inc.

Needed Communication

Part of the nobleness of this path is having the willingness and courage to talk about the intruder with your loved one.

As a work-group consultant, I often talk about what I call Paise light, harsh light, breakthrough light and rich light. "Light" is a metaphor for communication. I believe many couples and families communicate about chronic pain in false light, hiding their true thoughts and feelings.

We need to talk about the intruder in rich light, where we openly, honestly and courageously (with the right motives) address relevant and/or difficult issues. We become real people dealing with real issues with good intent.

Then again, sometimes, great communication is silence.

Some years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and realized Sherrie was stifling a sob. The hairy-knuckled man in me wanted to discuss the problem immediately, create an action plan and go back to sleep. Instead, I rolled over and squeezed her like a teddy bear. She burst into tears. I continued to squeeze until she fell asleep minutes later. My unspoken message was: "I know this is tough, but I'll always be here with you."