TOM JACKSON
I’ve got a bit of an issue with my shoulder
(rotator cuff, right side, hurts a surprising
amount but only when I raise my arm above
about 120 degrees) so I went to see a physio
about it. Having spent six months hoping it
would go away first, obviously, being a man an’
all. The physio, Holly, was really helpful and
gave me some rehab exercises to get things
back in order. Some of them involve borderline
pervy rubber bands.
All I’ve got to do now is, er, do the
exercises! And then I’ll be back doing lateral
whatsit pulldowns before you know it.
I can’t wait.
As Holly was making her diagnosis,
she kept asking me how such and such a
manoeuvre ranked on a pain scale between
zero and ten, zero being no pain, ten being
bound to a rock with an eagle eating your liver
all day every day for all eternity, Prometheus
kind of deal. I’ve become aware of similar
questions based on a self-assessed pain scale
creeping in at the GP, hospital and chemist in
recent years too. I always say four or five.
The truth is, and I’d be interested to hear
if others share this problem, I didn’t have
any idea how to rank the twinge – ache?
Throb? Searing stab of agony? – manifesting
along my inner right bicep when I held
my arm in a certain posture. Nor am I sure
how anyone could. Not with that degree of
precision, anyway.
OK, so I know the difference between, say,
a two and a nine. A two is when the dental
hygienist goes in a bit hard with the polisher.
A nine is when the actual dentist hits a nerve
with her drill before the anaesthetic kicks in.
With the first one you wince for a second,
smile bravely and crack on. With the second
one they have to scrape you off the ceiling.
But can anyone say whether their arm
pain is a three or a seven? Other than perhaps
a professional athlete or a super-dedicated,
highly experienced masochist? What
difference does it make anyway?
Obviously there are other factors
underlying my confusion as well. I don’t want
to look like a wimp. But neither do I want to
pretend it doesn’t hurt, because it does; that’s
why I’m there. Hence the safety-first fours
and fives out of ten. But it’s guesswork. And
guesswork that can’t really provide much
insight to another person, because it’s all
relative, isn’t it, pain?
My wife, it won’t surprise you to learn,
reckons I overreact to minor discomfort. Callsme a drama queen, if you please. It doesn’t
help my case that both her brothers are hard
as nails. I once saw Colin walk flush and fast
into a lamppost, nose first, and barely break
stride. As for Jonathan, he just fell off his bike
in Edinburgh, smashing his collar bone into
three pieces and cracking several ribs, one of
which punctured a lung. When A&E offered
him a morphine drip, he said, “No, thanks.”
A major missed opportunity, I call that.
Nicola always cites the women-give-birth
argument to explain why we blokes are
such wusses. To which I respond with one
word: balls!
Because as any chap who’s ever taken a
hefty kick to the nads will confirm, it may not
equate to parturition (how could I ever know?
Which is sort of my point), but it’s difficult to
conceive of pain that might be much worse.
Women seem to think of testicular impacts as
quasi-comical, akin to stubbing your toe, like,
“Oh, ouch, but you do look funny!” Believe
me, even glancingly minimal nutsackular/hard
object contact can be agonising for ages.
Mind you, talking of stubbed toes, so can
they. A stumble on a wonky paving slab is no
biggie, but how about that hellish business
where you catch the bed base or door frame
in bare feet and your little toe is wrenched off
at an angle? All alone, far away from its four
other toe mates? For 30 seconds after you
do that, life really isn’t worth living.
My other problem at the physio (and this
applies in other contexts too, such as sport,
dancing, driving, using basic tools, anything
involving the language, theory and practice
of balance, rhythm, dexterity and spatial
awareness) is that when Holly asked me to
perform certain movements, even though she
used simple, precise English, I simply did not
understand what she wanted me to do.
“Soften your knees.” “Stay in the same
plane.” “Slide your shoulder blades down your
back.” “Raise your arms as if they were on
a train track.” After repeated explanations,
I realised these were not complicated
instructions. Yet between the hearing of
the words and attempting the requested
physical rearrangement, understanding
flies straight out of the window.
I reckon my proprioceptors might be the
issue. Which as an excuse makes a change
from, “Ooo, it’s me glands!”, don’t you think?
Or possibly I’m just a bit thick. n[email protected]‘My wife, it won’t
surprise you, says
I overreact to pain.
Calls me a drama
queen, if you please’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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