“Well you do not want to spend the next 50 years of your life in pain do you?”
This is the way Belgian doctors talk to you. They do not beat around the bush, they say it like it is and often in a startling manner. If you are overweight, they are going to tell you. If you are not taking care of yourself they are going to call it out. And if you have been walking around in pain for four years thinking “I got this” they are going to tell you that it is not really a “great plan”.
As an example of this Belgian bedside manner, when I had my first child in Belgium I started crying at the exact worst moment during the finale. I was just so tired and scared and overwhelmed. My doctor, who had always been polite and kind looked at me with great disappointment and literally yelled at me “stop crying right now, there will be none of that!”. I was so stunned I stopped at once and managed to get back on track.
A few years later visiting the same doctor, she made me step on the scale. This was the moment I most dreaded every year, but this time I had prepared a speech. “Yes, I know last time I said I would lose the weight, but this time I have a plan. I have saved all my lovely designer pants from before I had kids and I am going to lose weight so I can start wearing them again”. Smiling at my genius I noticed her looking at me with some bemusement. Then straight to the point: “Every woman has those pants in the back of their wardrobe, and no one ever wears them again. Lose 10 kilos and get rid of the pants.”
So after spending 4 years walking on a heal that had been broken, fixed, and then sort of broken again I was in total agony most of the time. Trips like going to the grocery store and picking the kids to school required a quick checklist: “Do I have my pain pills, do I have my water bottle to take the pills, how long will I be gone”. Going to a work conference was even more challenging: “When will I be able to sit down, don’t forget to pack snacks to take before the medicine, is it weird and unprofessional to take my shoe off and start rubbing my foot during a workshop?”
But it is amazing how we adapt to things that would seemed unbearable if they all happened suddenly (I could give some political examples here, but maybe I will save those for later). The pain just crept up on me, and so did my ability to just keep adapting to it. I knew exactly what to do at 3:00 am when the pain woke me up. Pain pills, pain cream, check work emails and wait to become numb enough to sleep again. If it hurts more than 30 minutes I would just get up and work on my laptop for a while. Clients began to think I worked all the time. I sort of did.
But then my new doctor looked me in the eye and made that obvious statement to me. I was there for a general check-up, and actually had no intention to even discuss my foot. But when she noticed me rubbing it and asked me if I wanted to spend the next 50 years of my life in pain the clear answer was “God, no. How did I even think that was an option.”
She gave me a referral for a pain expert, and I put it I my purse with the other paperwork with little hope. Another doctor and another waste of time. I have seen so many doctors, tried every type of pain therapy and physiotherapy and meditation. “It won’t work” I thought. But I made the appointment anyway.
But here is the thing, it worked. It has been a week and the pain is totally gone. It is like a story where you get to make one wish that comes true. And the weird part is I sort of miss it, not that I want the pain back it but more like it was my constant companion for 4 years and now I just don’t know where it is anymore. We got so close, we worked together, I negotiated with it “please just let me finish walking the dog.” I am waiting for it to appear, to jump out at me and yell “surprise, I am still here, fooled you didn’t I!” I still have my pain pills in my purse, just in case.
The doctor who finally fixed my pain (in my mind he is now like a hansom Disney cartoon character who saves everything) is a nerve specialist. I will explain later in another post what he did, because it was funny and weird and painful. But I will say one thing that proves he is a Belgian doctor. He had to go through my right bottom cheek with a big needle thing to get to the sciatic nerve. It was rather unpleasant and he apologized at my obvious discomfort, but then said matter of fact “but you know there was an awful lot we had to go through to get there”. My husband laughed, and I rolled my eyes and then also laughed. I never did lose those 10 kilos, so yeah a little extra to go through. I also still have all those lovely pants.