To ER or Not To ER?

I’ve been pretty sick this past week, but just normal people sick. Coughing, fever, sore throat, eye infections, all the usual stuff. I felt like hell, just like anyone does when they’re sick, so after about five days of it I went to see my family med doctor for a checkup.

My Hands

I see my doctor at the local university hospital, and it’s a pretty big place. At the first check-in, the person behind the desk took one look at me and asked if I needed a wheelchair. I told him thank you, but no. He looked very concerned and asked me to sit down. Then he looked alarmed and said, “Your hands!” I didn’t need to look to understand what he was referring to. When I was taking classes to become an EMT the paramedics used to use my hands as an example of what “mottled skin” looks like. I quickly put my hands in my pockets and just smiled.

I Know My Body

After that, things escalated pretty quickly. I was running a fever, and the conclusion of the visit was that I should present to the ER for possible admission. Well, I did not go to the ER. Instead, I went home. Now, about four days later, I’m almost good as new. (I’m not recommending ignoring your doctor’s advice!)

So what am I trying to convey here? That for the most part, people only believe and act on things they can see, hear, and subjectively feel, including doctors. I’ve come into clinic before in so much pain from my RA that I could barely sit down or walk, and nobody batted an eye. I’ve seen my rheumatologist, desperate because I was passing out at night from the pain, only to be told I was being dramatic, until the labs could back me up.

I’ve called people to cancel various plans, and even work sometimes, due to an extreme flare, and I get the same hollow response every time, they clearly don’t believe me. But when I made those same calls, my voice barely above a whisper from being so hoarse, everyone was suddenly at my door with soup and favors.

RA Pain Is Not Regular Pain

Invisible pain is the hardest kind to carry. It doesn’t make people gasp when they see you. It doesn’t draw worried glances or urgent whispers. It just lingers, quietly, relentlessly, beneath the surface where no one else can feel it. You’re expected to function, to smile, to keep going, because from the outside, you look “fine.” When your suffering isn’t visible, it’s easier for others to dismiss it, ignore it, or chalk it up to exaggeration. That’s what makes invisible pain the worst kind, it isolates you. Not just in the experience of the pain itself, but in the silence that surrounds it.