The Epidural Was Scheduled. The Emotional Damage Was a Walk-In.

Okay, let’s talk about my epidural yesterday. Because I went in hoping to leave with less pain and somehow left with additional emotional baggage. Which is annoying because I just moved and I’m trying to declutter.

A month ago, I met with a nurse and two doctors at the pain management clinic. I was completely honest about my addiction history, my recovery, and being on Suboxone. I declined prescription narcotics.

I have an extruding herniated disc pressing on a nerve root, another bulging disc, spinal stenosis, and spondylosis. Basically, my spine has decided we’ve had a good run. I’m 39. Very dramatic of her.

I’ve been dealing with pain for a long time, but I know I have to protect my recovery. We scheduled an epidural, and they explained the sedation they planned to use, including fentanyl. They asked whether I was comfortable with that.

I thought about it. A lot.

I talked to the people I needed to talk to. I talked to my higher power. I decided I was comfortable receiving it during a medical procedure under medical supervision. To me, that felt very different from going home with a prescription to manage on my own.

I didn’t casually make that decision. My recovery is so important to me. I did the thinking, the talking, the praying. We had a plan.

Or so I thought. 🤦🏻

A little midnight medical research. What could go wrong?

The night before, I decided to Google everything that could possibly go wrong during an epidural.

Because apparently, being informed wasn’t enough. I needed to personally investigate every possible way my life could fall apart before breakfast.

I was already nervous. By the time I finished reading, I was mentally prepared to update my will. I don’t even have a will. Somebody please make sure Pablo gets my good pillows.

So I got there exhausted and SO anxious, but at least I knew I was being sedated so maybe it wouldn’t be THAT bad.

I was sitting on the gurney in a hospital gown, waiting for the nurse to come back with an IV, when the doctor came in. I’d never met her. She had the first available appointment when I scheduled it, and everyone said she was wonderful.

Our definitions may vary.

She told me she wasn’t going to give me the planned sedation because of my history.

Like… what?

My nervous system would like a word.

My hands started shaking. My heart started racing. I tried to explain how I felt, but she cut me off and said she refused to do it. She offered Valium instead and told me I’d be fine.

Meanwhile, I was very clearly not fine.

My heart rate was 150. I was sitting perfectly still and somehow doing cardio.

Listen, I get scared at the dentist, too. I’m learning how to handle things without being totally faded, and sometimes my body responds to fear like we’ve been selected for the Hunger Games.

My brain needs a minute to process things these days. And all of this happened SO FAST.

I thought about rescheduling with the doctor I had originally seen. But I was already in so much pain, and I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait.

So I took the Valium. It helped a little. I went through with the procedure.

I got through it, but it was an awful experience for me. Even two of the nurses came over and apologized and said they didn’t think the situation was being handled right.

Could we have had a conversation first?

I understand that doctors have to use their own medical judgment. She didn’t have to agree with the original plan just because another doctor discussed it with me.

But could we have talked about that before I was sitting there in a gown, having a panic attack?

Review my chart. Explain your concerns. Ask me about mine. Give me a minute to understand my options.

Who knows? Maybe we would’ve agreed.

Instead, I felt like I was doing something wrong just for expecting the care we had already discussed.

I felt like “addict” was the only thing she saw when she looked at me. And honestly, I was SO embarrassed. Completely mortified.

The interaction made me feel like she thought I was there just to get enough fentanyl for what, six minutes?

Be so for real.

Here’s the thing, friends: if I wanted to use, I’d use. I wouldn’t schedule an epidural a month in advance and involve an entire billing department.

I was there because I’m in pain and trying to do something about it. I know that doesn’t erase the medical risks. That’s why I disclosed my history in the first place. So we could talk about them.

I’m actually trying really hard over here.

I’m participating in my life today. I take a lot of pride in trying to do the next right thing.

I ask questions. I talk things through. I think about consequences. Sometimes I even think about them BEFORE doing something. Huge development for me.

These situations are going to come up. I have to learn how to navigate chronic pain while also being in recovery. That’s not easy.

But honestly? I feel like I’ve been doing a really good job.

I was honest. I declined take-home narcotics. I carefully considered the plan they offered. I did all of that because I care about my recovery and the life I’m building.

I wanted to feel like those things counted for something.

My history matters. But my pain matters, too. My fear matters. The person I am today matters.

And honestly? I didn’t like her. I didn’t feel she was kind to me. I’m glad she isn’t my regular doctor, and I don’t have to ever see her again.

I’m working on spiritual principles. I have not yet achieved “enjoys everyone.” Please allow additional processing time.

Here’s the part that surprised me.

I’m actually really glad I got through the procedure without the planned IV sedation. Knowing I was able to do that means something to me.

But we could’ve arrived at that decision without leaving me feeling traumatized and humiliated.

A conversation. An explanation. A little patience.

I could’ve felt supported while doing something scary. I could’ve had time to ask questions and decide whether I was comfortable moving forward.

I didn’t need to feel like I was doing something wrong to make a decision that was right for me.

And being glad about the outcome doesn’t mean I have to be okay with how I was treated.

Both things can be true.

The way we treat people with addiction matters.

I keep thinking about that.

How we speak to people matters. Whether we listen matters. What happens after someone trusts us enough to be honest matters.

I know an addiction history raises concerns in a medical setting. I understand that. But there is a whole person attached to that word in the chart.

A person who might already be embarrassed. Who might have rehearsed how to disclose their history. Who might be trying really hard to do things differently.

I’m one of so many people learning how to navigate this. People in recovery still get hurt. We still need procedures. We still live with chronic pain.

We need to be able to ask for help and have honest conversations about our options.

Leaving an appointment wondering, “Would I have been treated differently if I hadn’t told them?” is an awful feeling.

I’m going to keep being honest. But I understand why people get scared to be.

And I think it’s time we talked more about that. About protecting someone’s recovery while also protecting their dignity. About making room for a patient’s voice, even when the plan needs to change. Crazy concept, right?

I’m glad I got through it. I just wish I’d felt like someone was helping me through it.

Anyway, I got an email asking, “Want to share about your experience?”

Well, actually. I’m glad you asked.

Let me get my laptop.