A Guardian Angel Stronger Than Pain

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

What I’m going to write about I can’t fully explain. There was a time when I would have been skeptical of my own forthcoming words. 

But here goes…

I’m certain that I’m in touch with another plain of existence due to my pain. To be precise, it’s a person I deeply love, a person I was never blessed to meet.

My aunt Grace has always been bigger than life to me, an angel who I named my work for. Like me, she was in the vortex of monumental generational trauma, the bread and butter of our family.

Despite my grandmother disowning Grace, her oldest daughter, then having her only other child, my mother, kidnapped, and then her ex-husband, my grandfather, committed, Grace managed to keep her feet planted on the ground.

With grit and dogged determination, she ran Grandpa’s dairy farm, regularly brought food to my mother, who was being starved by my grandmother, and eventually got her father out of the asylum. That’s a lot on one pair of shoulders.

Grace paid the ultimate price for her goodness in the jaws of trauma when she died from leukemia at age 20 in 1947. I’ve always been compared to my sweet aunt, and even repeated the familial illness pattern when I got Complex Regional Pain Syndrome at the same age, ending my life in a different way.

When I was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer in 2019 and told by my doctors that the toll of fixing my dysfunctional family was the cause of my cancer and decades of pain, I brought Grace into my daily rituals and meditations for comfort. I was in treatment hell, and her essence was safe and loving and healing. With time, I discovered that Grace was my guardian angel.

When I brought this seemingly illogical ritual up with a respected integrative medicine colleague, he advised that “Ancestral Healing” is a real thing, something Native American people have done for millennia. He went on to share, “You instinctively knew to go there, Cynthia, because healing their trauma will heal your own.”

Over the last year, my daily conversations with Grace became so intense, I began asking her to visit me at my condo. The love I felt for her was profound and reciprocated so strongly, I just had to have her near.

You see, 2023 was the worst year of my life. After fighting a cancer recurrence, complications left me in the hospital near death. Then I had ever-piling pain problems seemingly signed, sealed and delivered from a dark realm. This led to crushing isolation compounded by COVID protocols, as I feared its long version would end me. I desperately needed my angel. 

This is when things got inexplicable, straining the boundaries of human logic and reason.

It started dead of night Christmas morning. My partner, John, and I have a tradition of keeping a small, faux tree in our bedroom, and this year we added a ballerina snow-globe to our light show.

Somehow, though one ran on battery and the other via cord, they both turned off while we slept. After checking them, we turned them back on, only to witness them go off a second time simultaneously later that morning. Separate power sources, no timers, no condo power outage.

The first time was beyond baffling, the second time I just knew. Grace had accepted my invitation. Both light show objects went off as many times as I could turn them back on during the season, and it felt loving and magical to know Grace was with me.

During this time, John recalled an incident shortly before Christmas. He was in our condo plaza giving our kitty some outdoor time, when he distinctly heard a friendly young woman say, “Hello, John.” The weird part was that no one was there. He only later connected the dots.

When the dreaded day came to take Christmas decor down, I sobbed and John’s eyes welled. It felt like we were saying goodbye to Grace until next year. But the “miracles” kept rolling.

That night, to curb our loss, I put up a large butterfly nightlight (run by batteries) given to me by a close girlfriend for my New Year’s Eve birthday. You guessed it. The next morning it was off.  Then the next, and the next. No timer, even changed the batteries. As of this writing, my butterfly goes off up to five times a night.

Other mystical things have happened, too numerous to mention, though they include a tree-top vintage angel, another vocal communication from a young woman and the number 1111, which I’ve learned signifies the nearness of a guardian angel. I still speak intimately to Grace every day during my Ancestral Healing work and have no doubt she salved me through the worst year of my life. You see, Grace is stronger than pain.

What do I make of all of this? I asked Grace to come, and she did. Every day I ask her to come again, and she does. I think she’s made herself known because I was in the right place and space to receive her love. I needed her like no other time.

And having her here, watching over me, comforting me, guiding me, eases my body and soul. I feel blessed, like I’m absorbed in a healing light of well-being. I’ve gone from a life of illness and desperation to one of wellness and gratitude. I’m even pursuing passions I’d let go of for far too long. 

I’ve come to believe that the universe bestows other-worldly gifts upon those who experience great loss. I also believe we women in pain are more sensitive than others, which is, in part, why we have pain. But that sensitivity, that portal if you will, can bring us blessings more powerful than pain - if we are prepared to receive and believe.

He, she, it, they are ready to help, to guide, to ease. Seek the sacred and be open to its grace.

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and multiple co-morbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Genetic Variations Involved in a Third of CRPS Cases

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) is one of the worst and most baffling of pain conditions. It usually starts after an injury to an arm or leg, with the skin in the affected area becoming warm, red and painful to touch. Most cases are mild and people recover after a few months, but in rare cases the condition grows worse, resulting in intense nerve pain that can spread and last for years.

Why do some people develop CRPS, while others get better? A small new study in the UK suggests that a genetic variant may be responsible for about a third of CRPS cases.

Researchers at the University of Cambridge took blood samples from 84 patients enrolled in the CRPS-UK Registry to look for variations in certain genes known as single nucleotide polymorphisms, or SNPs for short. Their DNA was compared to a control group of patients with chronic pain from fibromyalgia and low back pain.

Their findings, recently published in the Journal of Medical Genetics, show that an SNP in 4 genes (ANO10, P2RX7, PRKAG1 and SLC12A9) was “more common than expected” in patients with CRPS for at least a year (CRPS-1) than it was in the fibromyalgia/back pain group.

In all, 25 of the 84 patients (30%) with CRPS-1 had the variations in at least 1 of the 4 genes. None of the variations was found in the control group.

Interestingly, men with CRPS were more likely to have the variations (57%) than women (24%), although the sample sizes are so small the discrepancy will need to be confirmed in a larger study. In real life, women are more likely to have CRPS than men.

“This raises the possibility of different mechanisms of disease in males and females in CRPS-1 and that therapeutic responses may also be influenced by sex,” wrote lead author C. Geoffrey Woods, a clinical geneticist at the Cambridge Institute for Medical Research.  “Our data support an underlying genetic predisposition to CRPS-1 in up to a third of cases, with this effect being most prominent in males.”

There may be a biological explanation for the findings, because the ANO10, P2RX7and SLC12A9 genes are found in immune cells of the peripheral nervous system, which becomes inflamed by CRPS.

All 4 genes are also expressed in macrophages — a type of white blood cell involved in the immune response of healthy people. This suggests that variations in those 4 genes may be what triggers CRPS, which is also known as Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD).

CRPS/RSD is difficult to treat and there is no known cure. Some patients have found relief through Scrambler therapy and ketamine infusions.

‘Take Care of Maya’: The High Cost of a Mother’s Love

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

Netflix’s top-notch documentary, Take Care of Maya, was excruciatingly painful for me to watch because it hit so close to home. I related on many levels: the disease, maltreatment from healthcare professionals, being labeled crazy, the family breakdown, and the pursuit of justice. But the dagger to my heart was the price paid for a mother’s love.

Like me, the protagonist, Maya Kowalski, has Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS), but the over-riding message of the film is about something far more insidious. It lays out the abusive extremes some health and social care systems take to make a buck at the cost of patients and their families. Sometimes that price can be unimaginable.

In Maya’s case, her parents were falsely accused of child abuse, specifically making their daughter ill for their own gain, a disorder known as Munchausen by Proxy. This misguided allegation led to Maya being kidnapped by hospital administrators, who then barred her from seeing her family, all while the 10-year-old’s physical and emotional pain became increasingly worse.

It was horrifying to watch Maya’s family unravel under the strain of this prolonged nightmare, in particular her bold and unflinching mother Beata’s relentless confrontations with the powers that be.

After multiple failed attempts to reverse matters in the courts, Beata, the focus of the abuse allegations and the target of the hospital’s ire (***spoiler alert***), became increasingly despondent to the point that she hanged herself to give her daughter the best chance of getting back home.

‘They’re Killing My Daughter’

I’m guessing that many who watched the documentary found its facts too fantastic to be true – and there was a time when I might have agreed with them. But I’ve lived too much of this story to question it now.

In my early 20’s, when it was clear that my still unnamed disease wasn’t going away, my mother became progressively distraught over watching my life slip down the rabbit hole. It’s fair to say my recovery came to be her over-riding obsession.

Mom wrote 200+ searing letters, sometimes demanding, at other times begging my HMO to diagnose and treat me. She spent large swaths of those years on the phone in desperate attempts to get me, as she coined them, “no-care” appointments, all in the hope that a compassionate physician or administrator would at last hear her pleas and change my course.

My poor mother became more and more unglued and unwell from the abuse, aimed first at me and then toward her, from this evil empire. She developed life-threatening heart problems and her legs, addled by aching varicose veins, went from bad to worse from constantly lifting me. Perhaps my most distressing memory of those dark days was when I’d hear her full-volume moans emanating from out-of-control sadness.  

One day after my HMO dropped the ball on an appointment we’d driven miles to attend, Mom snapped with rage. With super human strength, she hoisted my 50-pound wheelchair in the parking lot and smashed it into her car. As I cried in fear, she repeatedly bashed away.

“They don’t care about my daughter!” she screamed. “She’s dying! They’re killing my daughter!”

During this time, I was terrified for my mother’s life. Though it never crossed my mind she would take her own, I was hounded incessantly with the thought that she would succumb to a stroke or heart attack.

Maya’s mother made the ultimate sacrifice by taking her own life to save her daughter’s. Some might say that was tragically misguided, but I’m certain Beata’s intentions were true and real. My mother said to me on more occasions than I care to remember, “If cutting off my arm would make you well, I’d do it.” I never doubted her.

After fighting my HMO for nearly a decade with no tangible results, not even a diagnosis, my mom pulled up stakes, but in a different way than Beata. Mom moved to New York to pursue her long-delayed acting career. When I confronted her about feeling abandoned, she explained her reasoning. “Maybe if I go, you’ll get better by doing more for yourself,” she told me. It didn’t have to be logical.

In Beata and my mother’s desperation to somehow, someway fix impossibly tragic situations for their daughters, both made questionable choices out of love. It’s true, the path to hell is paved with good intentions, especially where chaos and heartbreak intersect.

Like Maya, I couldn’t just fold tent and walk away from the institution that did me wrong. Sure, I wanted justice for me, but also for my mom. I became a spokesperson and a whistle-blower for HMO reform in California, hell bent on exposing all of their atrocities. I did get a number of licks in, multiple high-profile media stories that helped change public opinion, which helped pave the way to sweeping legislative reform.

In retrospect, something I think of quite a bit these days, the cost was too high. I’m harassed by this entity to this day and they were successful in killing much of my most important work. In short, the fallout from my justice-seeking made me sicker and sadder over the decades, taking away more than it gave.

When I see Maya seeking justice in her mother’s name, I have great respect for her, but also concern. This young woman is now in remission and, going forward, my prayer is that she puts her health front and center. After poignantly telling her story on a world stage and prevailing in the courts (which I believe will mercifully happen soon), I hope Maya will step away with the knowledge that she’s done enough, and never looks back. It’s time to save herself.     

It’s also time to grieve, maybe more than anything, the loss of a mother’s love.    

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Painfully Stepping Over the Line

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

For decades, people have described me as indefatigable, super-human strong and the ultimate survivor. Or the one filled with surprises and miracles. Well-intended compliments that have moved me and, during dark times, spurred me on. But now these tributes vex me because I don’t know if I can live up to them.

Maybe I’m just tired of fighting the impossible.

My latest cascade of battles began in 2019, after getting a breast cancer diagnosis and not knowing whether I’d choose treatment due to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). While pushing back on my oncologist’s recommendations, she pulled out all stops in an effort to convince me to fight for my life. She asked, “Can you imagine yourself not doing treatment and regretting it?”

I furrowed my brow and replied, “I’m more concerned that I’ll do treatment and regret living with the damage afterward.”

I was terrified that cancer care, in all its cutting, burning and poisoning glory, would ignite a red-hot mess of CRPS, sending me back to my bedridden days and zeroing out any quality of life I’d clawed back over the decades.

I drew the line. To move forward with treatment, I had to have a life worth living at the other end.

I chose to only do chemo and miraculously lucked out, cancer and pain-wise. When my cancer returned a year and a half later, it appeared I’d skated by again, until I didn’t. While the immunotherapy knocked the tumor out in short order, little did I know that with each infusion my immune system was amping up to push me over the line, but in a way far worse than I could have imagined.

By mid-March, my lap swimming, my go-to for health and freedom, became a painful hell. I couldn’t push off during flip-turns, one leg barely kicked and my neck screamed in agony each time I turned for a breath. I had no choice but to quit.

Soon walking was near impossible: slow, labored and almost shuffling. My knees swelled to the point they wouldn’t allow me to get up from a chair or couch. Frantically, my partner, John, got a raised seat so I could use the toilet. I started losing weight because the pain in my jaw made eating torturous.

Screaming often through the days and nights, I felt hatchets and icepicks throughout my body, grinding glass replaced my joints. When I could sleep, I woke often with fever and chills.                   

After scads of labs, internet research and clinical assessments, I’ve learned that I’m the proud owner of a brand, spankin’ new disease: Reactive Inflammatory Arthritis. I’m now living the experience I feared most, the place where I told myself I couldn’t, wouldn’t go. I’ve stepped over the line, terrified it’s a one way ticket.      

To dampen the inflammation and stabbing pain, hell, just to get me moving, my doctors put me on low-dose naltrexone and prednisone (the latter I swore up and down I’d never revisit.) For that blessed comfort, the cost is mighty. I’m zonked out and joyless while insomnia, constant dizziness and the constipation-diarrhea seesaw zap my quality of life.

With the drug relief, I’m mercifully dipping into a warm therapy pool where I can move, walk and swim some, offering vague hope of recovery. But I see the troubled look in the eyes of my Y friends, the wish that their feisty, frothy friend would reemerge. I can’t help but wonder if they’re playing witness to my slow down and out.         

In my darkest hours, when the arthritic pain makes me question whether I can survive another five minutes, I rock with anger that my tumor’s gone. That was my ticket out. The jokes on me as I live the cancer-free dream. Cue the laugh track. I’m not living and free is nowhere to be found.

When my better angels reappear, I remember why I fought twice, tooth and nail, to see another day. I want to live, to love, and to see the beauty all around me. I want to continue to be a force for good.

Ahh, but that pesky line. I’ve got to get back over it. Or do I? When I got sick 40 years ago, I swore I wouldn’t live on if I couldn’t continue my showbiz career. I was utterly convinced life wouldn’t be worth a damn without it. Yet, here I am, staring down that line again. Maybe, MAYBE there’s some wiggle room one more time.     

I imagine all of us who’ve lived with high-impact pain over the long haul have drawn that line. Then later, took out an eraser and drew it again, renegotiating the terms. At another time, when we drop below, we grasp and beg as we slowly, savagely eek back over. Or not. It’s ever changing, tied to the whims of fate and will.

Maybe the line just gives us an illusion of control. Maybe it’s a frenemy, something that keeps us company whether we’re above or below.

This I know. I’m scared and tired while I stare down my new mountain. I’ve lost cherished independence, that may or may not return, requiring John to be on call at all times. We’re two generations removed since the last time I had to fudge the line, and what if my cancer returns? How many more comebacks can I stage?

Last night, I spewed anger with a close girlfriend, bristling that my impossibles never quell, despite being a good person. At that moment, something awoke in me. I was surprised to feel that old spark in my belly – which has me thinking that anger is serving me well right now.

It was so powerful when Heather commented, “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

I’ve learned that the best way to predict the future is by looking at the past. By that yardstick, I’ve always toed the line, come hell or high water. But like every other climb, I’ll decide what’s good enough, in my time, in my space.

Maybe I can live with that. 

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome and 19 comorbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

A Window Into the Impossible: A Pain-Free Life

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

I recently experienced the miracle of living pain-free for a while, after 40 years of body-wide Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. I was astonished by what it felt like and what I learned about myself.   

In November, I had a serious cancer treatment complication, one that landed me in the hospital and forced me to suspend care. After stabilizing and returning home, I had to taper down from a course of high-dose prednisone, a corticosteroid, over eight weeks.     

The multitude of prednisone side effects were worse than I imagine hell to be, save one: my pain was gone. Okay, not gone-gone, but so damn near I forgot about it.

Yeah, you read that right. After decades of burning, radiating, life-upending, soul-crushing, never-ending, can’t-do-another-moment pain, it just wasn’t a thing anymore.     

Over the last decade or so, my life partner, John, has asked me on occasion, “What would you do if your pain just went away?”

That question pissed me off because pain has robbed me of my dreams. How dare it go away now, I would think, after destroying my life! Ebbing into my later years, I knew it was too late to reclaim what was gone. I decided it would hurt too damn much psychologically to lose my physical pain.  

I was stone-cold wrong. When the prednisone kicked in, it was nothing short of heavenly bliss to be without my constant agony. At first, it felt as though much of my lower body had been amputated, but in a good way. Poof, like magic, the tonnage of pain and heaviness were gone. Also, to my surprise, I had zero emotional fall-out.

I marveled in the miracle of standing, as this ability had been absent for many decades. I’ve spent countless hours, weeks and years staring at people in public, trying to figure out how they could stand and shift their weight without apparent torment or thought. After becoming a “shifter” myself while on prednisone, I had a clear, three-word answer: It doesn’t hurt.   

Not using my wheelchair was a trip because people stopped treating me like a child. Rather than literally gazing down with pity, they looked me straight on, eye level and all. They even asked me questions about myself, rather than disregarding the invalid while turning to John. That, in itself, was a game-changing reality, and I started to smell the sweet possibility of independence again.       

Every moment without pain was a miracle, blowing open my mind with new ideas and long packed away possibilities. For the first time, I seriously thought researchers would someday find a cure for CRPS. I mean, if they could switch much of my pain off virtually overnight, clearly science was on the edge of making this stick permanently.

If only.

Here’s the other side of the story I alluded to earlier. When my pain went away, it cruelly coincided with the most torturous time of my life. The price of high-dose prednisone was, for me, an existence worse than pain. I was in and out of psychosis, sleeping three to four hours a night with an irregular, pounding heartbeat, and a thousand other little shop of horrors. With that onslaught, my spirit broke. Add the perils of aggressive cancer and the fallout of a serious treatment complication, and the torture was just too much.

On New Year’s Eve, my 62nd birthday, I told God that if it was my time, I was ready to go. I didn’t think Cynthia was ever going to come back. “Please, please make my suffering stop,” I begged.

To my surprise, and most I know, I clawed my way back after completely tapering off the prednisone. My new miracle has me living in gratitude, despite my old pain rushing back with a vengeance, leaving me with a GOAT of a pain flare. I writhe through much of my days and nights, feeling the burning hatchet sear my joints. But, dammit, I’m me again, and, like all flares, this too shall pass.      

Thankfully, I’m strong enough to be back on chemo as the benefits of self-care are once again paying off in spades. Adding to the good news, my recent CT/PET scan came out negative. “No Evidence of Disease” to be precise! These days when I pray, I don’t ask God to take me, but rather to keep me on this glorious earth.             

I got a glimpse into the other side, the miracle of being pain-free. But the cost of losing me was too high. Heck, science tells me I’d no longer care about my pain if I got a lobotomy. No thanks.

I’m back to not wasting precious energy speculating about a possible cure. If it comes, fantastic, but I have no expectations, and accept and embrace the reality of what is right now.

Though my pain is often wretched and dark, I long ago embraced it as part of my authentic self. And to stay true to one’s self, there sometimes comes a great cost.

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

My Story: 30 Years of Pain

By Rochelle Odell

Sad to say, but I am entering my 30th year battling the monster called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD), also known as Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). After three decades, I just call it by both names: RSD/CRPS

It was bad enough when the disease was triggered when I was 46. I had made a career change from aerospace to nursing, and moved out of California to take a new job not too far above minimum wage as a Critical Care Tech. After being a volunteer EMT, it was my dream to become an RN or trauma nurse.  So, I trekked to Georgia to start reaching for my dream.

My left heel was most unhappy with all the walking. I had a lifetime award for medical due to a work comp knee injury, which caused an abnormal gait and the heel pain.

After six months, plus physical therapy, I had a knee arthroscopy. The surgeon was also supposed to remove a painful heel spur, but didn’t. Instead, he accidentally severed a nerve in my left heel, immediately triggering what was then called RSD.

In less than five years, the monster spread to all four of my extremities. I had every therapy, blocks, multiple implants and other procedures, but all ultimately failed.

Back to California I trekked with unexplained, unimaginable pain. I had no job, no insurance except for work comp, and was alone -- questioning my sanity about the career change.

ROCHELLE ODELL

I was eventually placed on a medication only regimen, and for over 16 years was on high dose opioids, along with high dose Diazepam, high dose Lidocaine, and three other meds. Funny thing was, I did very well with them.

Was my pain gone? With RDS/CRPS? No, but it was controlled to the point where I could function. I drove, took good care of my small home, and remained active despite the severity of my disease.

Fast forward to 2016. Those of us suffering from unrelenting intractable pain remember all too well what began that year. Thank you, CDC. All my meds stopped suddenly, but I had no idea why until 2017. A new life of hell began. I didn’t leave the house and was mostly bedbound, only getting up to let my very worried little dog outside, or for a trip to the bathroom or kitchen. Showers? What was that? Just going to the bathroom completely drained me. Thank heaven for adult wash cloths.

I discovered online shopping, thankfully, so we survived. I had no family where I now lived and felt frightened and frustrated. It was like my world had ended. I no longer trusted any doctor or nurse, because most were condescending and uncaring, which really saddened me. I gave up an excellent career in aerospace to go into a profession to care for others, nursing. What happened to those people?

In 2018, I returned to pain management and was placed initially on low dose Norco.  By then my pain was out of control and I knew this would be a new era when it came to pain management. I also knew I was very lucky to have found a provider who would prescribe any opioid. My dose was slowly titrated up, although it was still only a third of what it used to be. I also became a palliative care patient.

I have learned to make my medications work for me, using less on tolerable days and more on bad days, ever cautious about running out early.  I learned, or rather adapted, to finding new ways to do my yard and housework. The last five years I decorated for Christmas like I never used to and began inviting friends over for holiday meals. I became active in my homeowner’s association and was elected vice president. It’s a large senior community with over 1,000 homes.

Have I paid the price for my new endeavors? You bet, big time, for several days at a time. But I did not give in to the pain.

I had a wonderful holiday thanks to sweet friends, and had two pain friends over on New Year’s Day for black eyed peas. One brought her husband. The other recently lost her husband, so she brought her son.

What’s the point of my 30-year story? To share that life does not have to end due to unrelenting pain. Yes, we have to fight far too many battles and no one should be suffering like we do. I decided not to let my nightmare consume me and refused to let it destroy what life I have left.

I am now 76. At this moment my left foot and leg are throbbing, and my whole spine feels electrified. Pain management ordered a full spine MRI to rule out arachnoiditis and the myriad of other problems already diagnosed. My left hand and arm feel like they’re on fire, but I know that when I finish this column, it’ll be time for my meds and some relief.

I want all my pain friends to stand up to your pain even when you feel you are at your wits end. Resurrect the fighter in you. Call a friend or have one over for tea or hot chocolate with this cold winter. You can do it! Tell your pain where to go, please, for you!

Rochelle Odell lives in California.

Do you have a “My Story” to share? Pain News Network invites other readers to share their experiences about living with pain and treating it.

Send your stories to editor@painnewsnetwork.org.

Learning How to Cope With Childhood Trauma

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

My world became unreal and terrifying when I was 18. Literally, everything looked, sounded and felt distorted. While I’ve long known this experience is called “derealization,” I only recently discovered it’s a form of dissociative coping that sprung from childhood trauma – trauma that also seeded a lifetime of chronic pain, including my Complex Regional Pain Syndrome.

During my trauma-release work last year, I learned that dissociation protects us from experiencing what is too overwhelming: perceived annihilation, if you will. My childhood years were so traumatizing, I now see that my mind made everything unreal to escape the horror of my world, which included domestic violence, mental illness, addiction and suicide.

There are five different forms of dissociation (depersonalization, derealization, amnesia, identity confusion and identity alteration), and my trauma therapist explained that, unfortunately, derealization is the least common variety, with scant research behind it. Also, it’s near-impossible to manage.

When my reality imploded a lifetime ago, my derealization felt anything but protective. It invaded me so dark and destructively, I feared I’d gone insane and that my next stop was an asylum.

It all started by eating too many pot-filled brownies while I was on an anxiety-ridden outing with my abusive brother and his posse. To get home, I was named designated driver because I’d partaken less than the others. I was terrified because I felt like I was on a bad trip. Also, I’m awful with directions and knew my brother would mercilessly belittle me for my wrong turns.               

Still, I took the wheel. Soon, out of nowhere, or so it seemed, I blew through a stoplight and missed a speeding Mack truck by a hair, my spatial abilities incapacitated. There must have been an angel on my shoulder that day as we all should have died. In a way, I did.

After being relieved of my driving duties, the people around me, the cars outside, even my own body became terrifyingly unreal and distorted, like being in a funhouse hall of mirrors. I also had such severe paranoia that when my brother’s girlfriend took a turnoff I wasn’t familiar with, I was certain she was driving me to hell. And when I say hell, I mean fire, brimstone and the guy with the pitchfork and tail.  

The horror didn’t let up for the next couple of weeks as I felt I was looking through a veil of fog. Perhaps the freakiest part was that everyone acted as though they weren’t on the same drug trip. I felt alone, always holding the tears and screams inside. I tried to play along with everyone else’s normal, reminding myself that if I let out my terror, they’d likely have me committed.

Panic Attack

Soon after, when my family took a long-anticipated trip to New York City, I lost my marbles. It was too much of a load of sensory input that I was unable to process in my vulnerable state. One night in our hotel room, I released my panic with a gut-wrenching scream that didn’t let up for hours. Horrified, my family got me to an ER, and I was diagnosed with an anxiety attack. I only wish.

After that, my derealization became my new normal. Good god, it didn’t let up for an entire year. During college and my first professional dancing job, I learned to cope by using distraction and reminding myself that the bad times were temporary, that some days were better than others.

After developing CRPS and seeing my life and dreams crumble a few years later, I had to give in to the spreading, fiery pain by moving back into my mother’s home. Anxiety, fear and despondency took over and my derealization roared back worse than ever. I was debilitated to the point that I could only lie on a bed and stare at cracks in the wall. It was a single crack that looked real to me.

Out of desperation, I saw a compassionate psychiatrist who mercifully blew open my world. I was stunned as he asked questions that lead me to understand that, not only did he believe me to be sane, he actually knew what plagued me. Stunned, I asked him if my symptoms were familiar.

“Let’s just say that if I had a nickel for every patient that came to me with what you’ve got, I could buy something expensive,” he told me. With that, a ton of weight lifted from my shoulders.

This healer put me on a benzodiazepine, Klonopin, and gave me a book that detailed my dissociative disorder. I was no longer alone and, at last, knew I was sane. Regarding the Klonopin, the good doctor added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if your pain lets up as well.” 

Within a few days, my derealization miraculously eased by about 80% and, as a bonus, I went into my first CRPS remission. The word “hope” re-entered my vocabulary, and I was again among the living.           

44 years after eating that brownie, I still wrangle with derealization. If stressed or triggered, the fog closes in, but it no longer runs me. I’m fortunate the clonazepam (generic for Klonopin) is still effective, as I have a brother who isn’t as lucky. He’s suffered most of his life with derealization, and nothing has ever provided respite.

Trauma brings on so much bad in so many ways, and our minds and bodies go to astounding extremes to persevere. Since my trauma-release work, I’ve arrived at surprising new understandings and feelings. I’ve come to a place of acceptance, even a bit of gratitude, for my derealization. It’s gifted a lifetime of protection by shielding me from what I likely wouldn’t have survived. It was simply trying to do right by me. Still is.              

For real.           

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Finding Peace While Fighting Cancer

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

It’s the damnedest thing. Despite this month being my 40-year anniversary with high impact pain, and while I battle an aggressive breast cancer recurrence, people tell me that I look healthy and happy.

Stranger still, I feel more grounded and centered than ever. In fact, I’m down-right peaceful. So much so, when I recently saw my osteopath, she said that I no longer needed her treatment because I was “in the flow.”  

After delving deep into this disconnect, I’ve unearthed the workings that have brought me to this sacred place. And now that I’m here, I plan to protect my peace.

To start, I’ve learned to neutralize platitudes and their associated shame. When people blow by the gravity of my cancer recurrence by assuring me that staying positive will save the day, I politely dismiss their cliché as unhealthy and unrealistic.

There’s no one alive who could face a second round of breast cancer without being mad as hell. That being said, I’ve given myself permission to move through the five stages of grieving – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – which has allowed me to come to an authentic level of positivity… and peace.  

Also, I’ve taken control of my cancer care. This is a big deal. After listening to my oncologist’s by-the-book treatment plan, I shared that, while well-intended, I thought his recommendations would kill me.

Instead, he and I sought guidance from trusted sources, and agreed on a plan that was tailored to my individual needs, including the complications that Complex Regional Pain Syndrome present. I won’t lie to you, the treatment is at times brutal. But I’m choosing it, and with control comes peace. 

And there was a miracle.

With the synergy of my current treatment (low dose chemo, immunotherapy infusions and a robust dose of self-care), my tumor quickly dissolved from the size of a ping pong ball to one that can’t be found. Wearing a Cheshire cat grin, my oncologist recently shared that in his 45-year career he’s never seen such a response.

So how did my body do that? Yes, the med cocktail certainly played its part, but I’m convinced that finding peace is my secret sauce to healing.

Besides taking control of my medical care, I’ve become religious about upping my terrain-game for the healthiest body and mind. I’ve switched to a vegan diet with lots of fish, committed to an hour-long workout each morning, get in bed early to promote deep sleep, and have radically reduced my stress by identifying and removing toxic people from my life. These are the self-care strategies we hear of time and again, and for good reason. When practiced, they work! 

Letting Go of Trauma

For more peace, I’ve vastly upped my game by adding a “paths-less-taken” approach.

Like most of us with pain, I suffered much childhood trauma, the foundation of my un-wellness. I’m working diligently on trauma release using various methods, one being forgiveness. Through daily visualization and meditation, I’m practicing the art of letting go of trespasses.

Instead of allowing anger and hurt to turn into psychic stagnation, I acknowledge the negative emotion, thank it for lessons learned, and send it on its way. Forgiveness is a choice, and I’ve decided to free myself from poisonous energy so I can move forward with peace.

I often remind myself that when a person is cruel, it’s not about me, but rather a challenge they’re experiencing on their life path. And when I can, though still a work-in-progress, I light a candle and wish them well.

Most surprising, I recently stumbled upon my biggest trauma-releasing, peace-inducing tool, as I intuitively knew this blast-from-the-past would move my wellness ahead by eons.

Several months ago, I surprised myself by bringing my grandmother, who passed long ago, into my visualizations. Soon other long-gone relatives arrived. Of particular interest was my Aunt Grace, who continues to lead my healing rituals. Grace died a couple decades before I was born, but I’ve always felt a bond so close, I’ve dedicated my life work to her. She is my guide and my angel.

I now understand that our connection comes from sharing similar traumas. We were both the “fixers” of impossibly broken families and both got profoundly ill at 21. Tragically, Grace died from leukemia. Mine was a different death when CRPS ravaged my body.

Through arduous work and by facing hard truths, I now see that, like Grace, most of my ancestors suffered profound trauma, and by sharing their genes, I’ve inherited the injury that binds me to disease. Science calls this epigenetics.

By healing the wounds of my ancestors through rituals, I’m healing myself. Additionally, I’m breaking cyclical familial patterns by not passing along the burden of traumatic energy to those I engage with.

These seemingly “woo woo” rituals appeared novel – hell, I thought I’d invented a breakthrough therapy! That was until I described them to an integrative trauma expert who shared that “Ancestral Healing” is a real thing, scientifically proven and all.

Life is precious. So is our life preserving, life enhancing peace. Whether I’m on my way out now or have 30 more years of kick in me, I’m focusing on protecting this essential resource. 

I’m convinced that most of our pain, physical and emotional, springs from inner tumult driven by deep wounds, many of them handed down. Through intentional work and practice, we can quell that upset and find peace. Then the challenge is to hold our peace sacred, to protect it from internal and external “vampires” that aim to trip it up.

My mom turned 90 last month and is suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s, I believe brought on by trauma. That trauma has passed down to me, seeding a lifetime of illness.

I recently spent time with Mom at her new memory center, and later that day delighted in meeting my newest grand-niece named after this beautiful, generous and loving woman.

I hope that by healing the wounds our ancestors couldn’t, I’ll help this li’l darling have a pain-free, peace-filled life, one she can, in turn, hand down.            

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Justin Brown: A CRPS Story of Hope

By Miles Ryan Fisher

When Justin Brown took his first steps at the age of 40, his parents were overcome with joy. Only, it wasn’t the same joy that they’d experienced when he’d taken his first baby steps.  No, this joy came with great pain — the kind of pain that comes with watching one’s child lose nearly half his life to a debilitating condition called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, also known as “the suicide disease.”

In 2006, just as Justin prepared to enter the working world as a Penn State graduate, he started losing weight. He began regurgitating his meals, vomiting most of whatever he ate. Over time, he grew gaunt. His face sunk and his cheekbones protruded. His skin wrapped around his body until he looked emaciated.

Doctors didn’t have answers. When Justin reached the point that he couldn’t hold down any food, they inserted a J-tube — a feeding tube — in him so that food could bypass his stomach. But it wasn’t his stomach that was the problem. It was the parasite they hadn’t tested for — the one dwelling in his intestine right where the tube was inserted. When they removed the J-tube, they accidentally left a part of it in him.

When Justin awoke from surgery, he awoke to something even more unbearable. Something hellish. The operation triggered a pain that spread through his entire body and left him incapacitated, even after the parasite and tube remnant were removed. At the age of 26, Justin no longer had the strength to walk, not even to the bathroom.

Since 2007, he lay in a hospital bed in the middle of his parents’ living room in Fort Washington, Pennsylvania, his arms at his sides, his head always facing the same direction. In order to subdue the pain that incapacitates him, Justin takes a daily mixture of heavy pain medication, including narcotics.

It took many years until Justin and his family found a doctor who offered an accurate diagnosis: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome or CRPS. Only, the doctor didn’t call it that. Back then, the condition was known as Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy or RSD.  

CRPS/RSD happens when an injury — as minor as a broken finger or as major as surgery — triggers a pain so severe that it is, according to the McGill Pain Index, worse than than amputation. The pain typically remains in the region of the injury, usually involving a limb. But in Justin’s case, it spread through his entire body.

“A lot of people feel like their skin or their nerves are burning, but for me it feels like my bones are being crushed,” Justin says. “If I took my worst pain before CRPS, that would be like a 1 out of 10 compared to my pain now. You really can’t describe it.”

The pain that he’s bravely battled for 17 years has been excruciating and constant. With no end. And no cure.

“It’s there 24/7, and you don’t know when it’s going to go away or if it’s going to go away,” Justin says. “But I had two choices. One was to completely quit. And the other was to keep going and hope that it’ll get better.”

Finding Hope

But now, Justin is finally getting part of his life back through a form of non-allopathic (without drugs or surgery) treatment offered at the Spero Clinic in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

The clinic, which has over 40 employees and treats hundreds of patients every year, was founded in 2012 by Dr. Katinka van der Merwe. Born in South Africa, van der Merwe immigrated to the United States in 1994 and earned her Doctor of Chiropractic degree with the intent of using it to treat individuals who suffer from CRPS and other chronic pain conditions. .

Her clinic’s approach involves treating the vagus nerve, which is the longest and most complex of the body’s 12 cranial nerves. Individuals who suffer from chronic neurologic disorders often have an underactive vagus nerve, which causes inflammation that is either localized or, as in Justin’s case, envelops the entire body. It’s this inflammation that can cause excruciating pain.

“My philosophy and belief is that the body is incredibly intelligent and can heal from the inside out,” van der Merwe says. “People don’t come here to get a diagnosis and medication — they come here to have their bodies rehabilitated.”

The clinic approaches pain treatment in a holistic and noninvasive way, using a variety of therapies and tools involving electrical, physical and auditory/visual/sensory stimulation. It’s the clinic’s range of therapies that helps correct the nervous system and – hopefully -- puts the patient’s pain in remission.

“It’s a completely different approach to everything that I’ve tried so far,” Justin says. This has included the most radical of forms, such as being placed in a ketamine-induced coma in Mexico and brought out of it with the hope that his nerves would essentially reset. Some CRPS patients have found relief with ketamine infusions, but it didn’t work for Justin.

It was last March that Justin began treatment at the Spero Clinic. As soon as the first week ended, Justin experienced progress. It began with his ability to move his hands. Then the next week, he stood up. On the third week, he walked for the first time in 15 years.

Every week after that has brought similar victories — small to a healthy person, but momentous for Justin. Regaining his ability to drink a Gatorade. Regaining his ability to curl two-pound weights. Regaining his ability to wear clothing that fits him, rather than clothing so loose as to not press against his body and cause him a great deal of pain.

“Before I got here, the most I could take were fifteen steps,” Justin says. “And they weren’t good steps. I’d just drag my feet on the ground. Now I walk from my hotel room down a couple hallways, through the center of the hotel, and outside.”

Every incremental gain helps Justin continue to grind. Unlike most patients, who require two or three months of treatment, Justin will need at least half a year because of how severe his CRPS is.

Fundraising Help

The cost of every week of treatment — about $3,000 — is typically not covered by insurance, which does not make it any easier on Justin or his family. If anyone knows this, it’s Philip Robert, one of the Spero Clinic’s CRPS patients in 2016.

Robert spent ten weeks at the clinic and found his recovery so miraculous that he was inspired to form the Burning Limb Foundation, a non-profit whose mission is to raise funds to provide financial assistance to people with CRPS, primarily for treatment at the Spero Clinic. What makes the foundation different from most other non-profits is that 100% of the donations it receives are applied to treatment costs. And unlike other fundraising platforms like GoFundMe, donors are then able to write it off as a charitable gift on their tax returns.

“The idea is to get (CRPS patients) started — get them seed money — so that they can then do a fundraising campaign in the nonprofit world,” Robert says. “We provide a platform in which families can utilize their resources—their network of friends and family—who may be willing to give a little bit more.”

It’s through the Burning Limb Foundation that Justin has received much-needed financial support from family, friends and even people who have never met him but want to play a role in his recovery.

It’s that recovery that Justin realizes is so important, not only to live a life free of pain, but also to inspire others like him who suffer from CRPS. While not cured of the disease, he hopes his remission can bring hope to others.

“If it can work for me, it can work for anybody,” Justin says. “It’s not guaranteed to work for everybody, but it can work for anybody.” 

Miles Ryan Fisher is the Assistant Director of the Building Trades National Medical Screening Program and also serves on the advisory board for Columbia Lighthouse for the Blind. His articles have appeared in the Washington Post, Philadelphia Inquirer, Washingtonian Magazine, Motherly, and Go World Travel.

Ketamine Gets FDA Orphan Drug Designation for CRPS

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

A Canadian biotech company has announced it has been granted orphan drug designation from the U.S. Food and Drug Administration to investigate the use of ketamine as a treatment for Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS)¸ a disorder of the nervous system that causes severe, intractable nerve pain. Currently, there is no FDA approved medication for CRPS.

Toronto-based PharmaTher Holdings specializes in the development of ketamine and other psychedelic drugs for mental health and pain conditions. The company also recently received an orphan drug designation for ketamine as a treatment for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), more commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

“Receiving our second FDA orphan drug designation with ketamine for CRPS continues our momentum in building a specialty ketamine-based product pipeline for not only mental health disorders, but also for rare and near-rare conditions present in neurological, pain and inflammatory disorders,” Fabio Chianelli, CEO of PharmaTher, said in a statement.

Ketamine is not an opioid, but acts on pain receptors in the brain in a similar manner. Although the drug is only approved by the FDA for anesthesia and depression, a growing number of clinics provide off-label infusions of ketamine to treat difficult chronic pain conditions such as CRPS. In high-dose infusions, ketamine puts patients into a temporary dream-like state that can lead to hallucinations and out-of-body experiences.

The FDA first approved ketamine in 1970 and the medical patent on it expired years ago. The goal of PharmaTher is to develop its own propriety formulation of ketamine and expand its use. Orphan drug designation helps speed that process along by encouraging companies to invest in new uses for old drugs, often jacking up the price in the process.

If successful, PharmaTher says it would have seven years of exclusive marketing rights for its ketamine formulation, as well as potential tax credits and the waiver of $2.4 million in FDA filing fees.

In 2019, the FDA approved Spravato, a ketamine-based nasal spray developed by Janssen Pharmaceuticals, as a treatment for depression. A single dose of Spravato costs about $900.

“It seems they are doing something similar to what Janssen did with Spravato,” says Kimberley Juroviesky, a retired nurse practitioner who receives ketamine infusions for CRPS. Juroviesky co-chairs an advocacy group that’s trying to get more insurance coverage of ketamine.

“They are taking ketamine and changing it slightly to create a new drug. Then they can charge hundreds for it. We are hopeful though that maybe this can help us in our fight to get generic ketamine covered by insurance,” she told PNN in an email.

PharmaTher plans to launch a Phase 2 clinical trial of its ketamine formulation in 2022. In addition to treating CRPS, the company recently began a clinical study of ketamine as a treatment for Parkinson’s disease, and has filed a patent application for ketamine as a treatment for obesity and Type 2 diabetes. PharmaTher is also developing a microneedle patch for the delivery of ketamine and other psychedelic drugs.

While ketamine is emerging as a trendy pain reliever and many patients swear by it, medical societies urge caution. Guidelines from the American Society of Anesthesiologists, American Society of Regional Anesthesia and Pain Medicine, and the American Academy of Pain Medicine only support ketamine infusions for CRPS and post-surgical acute pain. The guidelines say there is no evidence supporting ketamine infusions for any other type of pain.

A 2019 study of nearly 300 patients who received ketamine infusions found that over a third reported significant side effects such as hallucinations and visual disturbances.

Low Dose Naltrexone Being Studied as Treatment for CRPS

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

Low-dose naltrexone (LDN) is already being used to treat a wide variety of chronic pain conditions, from fibromyalgia and interstitial cystitis to Ehlers Danlos syndrome and temporomandibular joint disorder (TMJ). Some doctors believe the drug may even be useful treating symptoms of a condition so painful it’s been called the “suicide disease.”

Soin Therapeutics, a small pharmaceutical startup based in Ohio, announced this month it has been granted orphan drug status from the Food and Drug Administration to explore using LDN as a treatment for Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS), a disorder of the nervous system that causes severe, intractable nerve pain.

"Obtaining Orphan Status from the FDA is an important milestone step for us at Soin Therapeutics. We look forward to running a large-scale clinical trial and eventually FDA approval to help patients suffering from CRPS," Dr. Amol Soin, the founder and CEO of Soin Therapeutics, said in a statement.

Currently, naltrexone is only approved by the FDA as a treatment for substance abuse. In 50mg doses, the drug blocks opioid receptors in the brain and decreases the desire to take opiates or alcohol. But in smaller doses of 5mg or less, some patients have found LDN to be a surprisingly effective pain reliever.

How LDN works is not fully understood, but supporters believe the drug modulates the immune system, reduces inflammation and stimulates the production of endorphins, chemicals produced by the body that reduce pain and anxiety.

It's important to note that because naltrexone is an opioid antagonist, it should never be taken with opioid medication – even in small doses -- because it may cause severe withdrawal.

"Low Dose Naltrexone has unique properties to specifically help the disease cascade of CRPS including attenuation of microglial cells involved in pain transmission, reduction of proinflammatory cytokines, antagonism of the Toll-like receptor 4 (TLR4), as well as stimulating release of endorphins which are the body's natural pain killers,” said Soin, who is a practicing pain management physician.

“Basically, this drug seems very well suited to treat several mechanisms of the disease process. All those properties would seemingly be quite helpful in CRPS patients. Best of all, this is a non-addicting and non-sedating drug that could be a new way to treat complex regional pain syndrome."

Soin Therapeutics hopes to develop a novel formulation of LDN and submit an Investigational New Drug application to the FDA before starting a clinical trial.

Because the patent on naltrexone expired decades ago, it’s a generic and cheap drug – perhaps the main reason it is not more widely used as a pain reliever. There is little incentive for pharmaceutical companies to market LDN or conduct expensive clinical trials to prove its effectiveness in treating pain.

Patients interested in trying LDN often encounter doctors who refuse to prescribe it “off label” or don’t know anything about it. The LDN Research Trust includes a list of LDN-friendly doctors and pharmacies on its website.

The Ever Changing Rules of CRPS

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

Two weeks ago, writhing at a level 10 pain, struggling to position my heating pad just right for a moment of relief, I told God that if it was time to take me, that was okay.

I thought I knew the rules of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. After nearly four decades of trying to sidestep the burning torture, making every attempt to not poke the bear, I was confident I’d cracked the code enough to ward off any long-term flare. The kind that makes you think about dying.

But a shot of emotionally heightened experience, a jigger of COVID vaccine, and a splash of post-chemo recovery combined to turn the rules on their head. I think.

No question, I needed to see my mom. Due to my bout with aggressive breast cancer, a once-in-a-century pandemic, toxic family members and my mom’s advanced Alzheimer’s, I hadn’t seen her in a year and a half. When COVID loosened and I discovered she’d been placed in a nursing facility, a window of opportunity opened for a possible visit without seeing family members that harm and hurt.

The heavens opened and I got to spend a glorious day with an angel disguised as my mom.

But before that, wheeling up to the facility, my profound dread leapt to the nth degree, fearful that I might be facing a firing squad made up of familial cruelty. That, along with the emotional elation of time together with Mom – loving each other through her scattered cognition – sent waves of arousal through my nervous system, sparking over-the-moon pain as my partner, John, and I made our six-hour return trek to LA.

Over the next days, then weeks, as my pain maintained its grip, I knew in my gut this flare was something altogether new and terrible. But why? As I learned long COVID was inciting cytokine storms of pain and fatigue, and that many of my vaccinated sisters in pain were experiencing epic flares, I postulated that the vaccine (which had already re-erupted chemo side-effects) was probably the secret sauce for my exquisite agony. 

Without a doubt, this is the worst CRPS flare I’ve had in 35 years – and that one from the Reagan 80’s left me using a wheelchair to this day. Imagine my fear of what I might lose this go around. I’ll tell you, it’s soul-shaking.

In the past when I’ve experienced bad flares, my doctors have encouraged me to temporarily go up on gabapentin (Neurontin), a nerve medication I’ve taken for many years with good results. Because I despise taking drugs and never trust the “temporary” part, I’ve always resisted increasing the dose. That is, until now. Truth be told, a month into this flare, it took only a nudge from my doctor to increase my daily gabapentin in-take by 300mgs.

What a mistake. Fair to say, while the increase lowered my pain level by about three points, a HUGE improvement, the side effects were scorched-earth. I was wiped out to the point of being barely functional. This “never-a-napper” was falling asleep mid-day and I would wake with dementia-level disorientation. John had to remind me what day it was, where I lived, and what was happening in our lives.

I also suffered with suicidal ideation, compulsive thoughts, depression, joint pain, constipation, blurry vision and spatial difficulties. I’d traded one hell for another.

On the fourth night, I turned in bed and woke to the room (or was it my head?) spinning. The vertigo alerted me to the fact that if I continued this drug increase, I’d likely fall – and that could be catastrophic.

The next morning, with my doctor’s consent, I went off the extra gabapentin and, in its place, started Alpha Lipoic Acid. I took this supplement during chemo to ward off neuropathy, and it did the trick without side effects. Okay, to be fair, I wasn’t aware that it made my urine smell like burning tires as the chemo drugs masked that little nugget. Sorry, John.

That night, I experienced my worst pain ever, but, again, why? Even more confusing, I woke with honest-to-goodness relief, the last thing I expected. In fact, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t describe my morning swim as torture. As of this writing, the relief is holding, though threatening to return to the “I’m ready to die” level. But now, I have a taste of hope.

Still, I’m exhausted, scared and confused.

This is the essence of CRPS. It can come and go with little apparent cause. It can hide and seek, and its rules of engagement are ever shifting, ever evolving. It’s a devil that pokes its white-hot pitchfork of torture whenever, wherever it feels the urge. It’s crazy-making.

For all this madness, for all the uncertainty about my hell flare, these things I know for sure.

I did the right thing by getting the vaccine. COVID, or one of its variants, would (still might) kill me. I’m also doing my part to end this pandemic.

Chemo saved my life. While I’m betting it’s playing a hand in my current suffering, and will most likely present unknown damage down the line, I would not be alive without it.  

I was right to see my beautiful mother. I don’t know how much time either of us has, as I’m still a few years from “free-and-clear.” For my remaining days, I’ll always recall her reaction upon recognizing me, crying out my name and holding me so very tight. As my wonderful friend, Irene, reminds me, Mom and I have an epic love.  

Mom taught me to love myself, too. And I do. Completely. That love extends unconditionally to my CRPS, as it’s a part of me as much as anything is.

39 years into my dance with this mercurial disease, I doubt I’ll ever get ahead of it as its mystery and misery run too deep. Still, I can love it completely without complete understanding.

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 20 co-morbidities for nearly four decades, and became a cancer survivor in 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Pioneering Neurologist and CRPS Expert Remembered

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

A pioneering neurologist who helped develop new treatments for Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) has died. Robert Schwartzman, MD, passed away last week at the age of 81.

Dr. Schwartzman was an emeritus professor and former chair of the Department of Neurology at Drexel University College of Medicine in Philadelphia. He also taught and practiced medicine at Thomas Jefferson University, University of Texas Health Science Center, San Antonio and the University of Miami. He mentored hundreds of residents and colleagues, and authored several reference books on neurology.

The primary focus of Schwartzman practice and research was chronic pain, particularly CRPS (also known as Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy or RSD), a chronic and severe pain syndrome affecting the nervous system.

At Jefferson University, Schwartzman founded the first CRPS clinic in the U.S. and pioneered the use of ketamine as a treatment for CRPS and other pain conditions.

“I met Dr Schwartzman in 2007 at a pain conference and joined the wait list to see him as my provider for RSD. I was finally able to so do in 2009. I shared what I learned with as many people as I could and continue to this day,” says PNN columnist Barby Ingle, founder and president of the International Pain Foundation. “His impact will live on through patients like me.”

DR. ROBERT SCHWARTZMAN

Ingle wrote about her first experience as a patient of Schwartzman in a PNN column. She went into the hospital in a wheelchair, but was able to walk out a week later after a series of ketamine infusions. She continues to get infusions regularly.

“He was a brilliant doctor and world expert on Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy who's training and 40+ years of research help teach other providers who have also gone on to help millions of patients,” Ingle said in an email. “He will forever live in my heart as he is the provider who got me from my wheelchair and bed bound to walking and living life to my fullest. I will continue sharing his pioneering works and receiving his protocol for my infusion therapy. He is a treasure to our whole community.”   

“I didn't know him personally but I knew and respected his pioneering work,” says Lynn Webster, MD, past president of the American Academy of Pain Medicine. “He challenged our thoughts and understanding about how to treat the devastating disease of CRPS.  

“Dr. Schartzman took us into unexplored areas of how to treat a crippling disease. His work inspired me and countless others who have tried to implement his treatment approach for our own patients. He has given us a legacy of research that will be the foundation on which new discoveries about the mechanism and cure for CRPS will occur. The passing of Dr. Schwartzman is a huge loss for science and humanity.”

Schwartzman retired from clinical practice in 2013 and moved to Marco Island, Florida. Funeral arrangements are private. His family requests that any donations in his memory be made to any Florida wildlife or conservation charity.

The ‘Crazy’ Healing Power of Music

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

As a young person, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t live and breathe music.

In grade school, I couldn’t wait to get to the multi-purpose room for two reasons: chorus to sing my heart out and band to play my beloved flute. I pestered my mother relentlessly to let me start piano lessons before age seven (a family rule) because I loved the way it sounded and couldn’t wait to make the notes on the page come to life.

Then there was my favorite. When Mom brought home the record “Funny Girl”, I knew that I’d never stop singing. It was pure joy, an extension of myself. Indeed, the best part of Christmas each year was receiving a new Barbra Streisand album, a treasure that I cherished to the point of wearing out the grooves.

I grew to be a nonstop, never-gonna-quit singer, dancer and actor. It’s what I lived for, what I was born to do. Nothing was going to stop me – and in the end, nothing really did. While we don’t get to live our dreams with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, we can hold onto our passions in a different way. And for wellness alone, we ought to.

People gasp when they hear that I was unable to speak for five years due to CRPS, because that’s an unthinkable symptom caused by an unimaginable disease. But those same people overlook the fact that CRPS made me unable to sing for 15 years, like that was something disposable.

When I couldn’t sing, I didn’t get to be Cynthia. Something fundamental and basic was stripped away from me. And with that went my expression and joy.

Lately I’m hearing lots about the healing powers of expressive therapy and how creative pursuits like dancing, painting, writing and acting can unleash “feel-good” hormones (like endorphins and oxytocin) that lessen pain, depression and anxiety. I’ve also come to understand that the part of the brain that drives creativity distracts from the part that controls pain. That’s certainly been the case with me.

Cooler still, partaking in one expressive therapy can lead to the recovery of another. It was soon after writing my memoir that I could feel my body getting ready to sing again. Regaining my voice was nothing short of a miracle and, to this day, I don’t really understand how it happened. My best guess is that through the narrative therapy process I purged negative feelings and wounds, opening a healing space. But in the end, does it matter?

Now that I’ve regained my strong vocal chords, I take every opportunity to express this joy. I sing with bands, in choirs, duets with musicians and a cappella harmony trios. I also love to record – and just finished my second CD titled Crazy, which I dedicated to “women in pain who know they’re not.” 

This album was a real labor of love as I took my time (in fact, seven years!) to record it. The obstacles throughout were many – multiple CRPS flares, a broken elbow that went untreated and undiagnosed for a year, a lupus infusion drug that nearly did me in, and, oh yeah, breast cancer.

For this album, I delighted in choosing songs that took me down memory lane, songs that I loved while growing up and that speak differently to me post-illness. I had to quickly wrap up my last two recordings in December 2019 as the dark chemo clouds loomed.

Then, after becoming an unlikely cancer survivor, I eagerly designed my cover. I hadn’t been on a beach for 35 years and was bald, but that didn’t stop me from being a mermaid, leaning against my fears while having them bolster me to look toward a bright future. 

I want Crazy to bring joy and laughter to those who suffer. I’m hoping this near-and-dear project will inspire us to turn our backs on fear and “impossibles,” reignite our passions and courageously move on.

I still hear from women in pain who are stuck in the elusive search for a cure in hopes of recapturing their past. Here’s the thing – we don’t get to go back.

Our choice is to stay stuck and miserable – or let the “cure” delusion go and partake in things that bring us healing and wholeness. I’m certain that one of the tickets forward is expressive therapy. When we stir our soulful passions, wellness follows.

As a former “triple threat” performer, it’s the expressive arts that continue to inspire me to heal. For you it might be a way different sort of passion. Perhaps nature, animal welfare or the pursuit of justice is your buzz. Bottom line, we all need to find ways to differently recapture what clicks our heels and makes the hair on the back of our necks stand straight. 

Being a long-time member of the Kingdom of the Sick doesn’t exclude us from the pursuit of joy. I know it’s easier said than done when wrangling with the likes of CRPS, migraine or lupus. But it’s essential to living a full, authentic life, one worth seeing the glow of a spectacular sunset.            

I don’t think there’s anything crazy about that.                     

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 19 co-morbidities for nearly four decades, and became a cancer survivor in 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

Click here to download or order her Crazy CD.

Surviving COVID-19 Together

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

I’m a survivor. At least that’s what I’m called now that I’ve fought my way into cancer remission.

But why the new acknowledgement? As a person who’s endured childhood trauma and decades of high-impact pain with 15 comorbidities, including chronic fatigue, I earned the “survivor” label a lifetime ago. My world has been up-ended and negatively impacted in most every way since 1982.

It’s just that the aforementioned health crises were never taken as seriously. But because I’ve made it through the most aggressive form of breast cancer, I’m at last an honest-to-goodness, card-carrying survivor. Okay, I guess I’ll take it.

In any event, as a person who’s been seriously ill for nearly four decades, I’m accustomed to going from the frying pan into the fire. True to form, after enduring six months of grueling cancer treatment, I find myself coming out of a long, dark tunnel just to step into a bizarre new one. Enter COVID-19.

Yes, I’m alive, recovering well and wanting to move forward. Trouble is, there is no moving forward during this pandemic. 

More troubling, while able-bodied friends who can’t imagine life-long illness try to give comfort by reminding me that I just have to get into the new, temporary COVID rhythm, I suspect something more ominous will bring me my next survivorship card. And I’m concerned we’ll all own a piece of that plastic.

If you think about it, COVID-19 appears to be globally playing out just like a chronic illness. The virus started as something new and relatively small, a nasty bug that was different, but nothing to write home about. As it picked up steam, the threat settled in and the masses went into crisis mode. Now people are cut-off, lonely and depressed while longing for the life they had. Sound familiar?

Deep down, I’m sadly sensing there’s no going back. Like severe chronic illness, temporary isn’t an option once life has fundamentally changed on a profound level. Bad begets bad as things start going down the rabbit hole. And what of the pandemics to come?  I’m guessing the best we can hope for is acceptance and learning a new way of life. A new normal, if you will.

I don’t think healthy people have the ability or perspective to grasp this possibility. I don’t blame them, that’s understandably too bitter a pill. But that’s what we with high-impact pain do -- continue to adopt new normal after new normal due to loss, abandonment and disappointment. We carry on.

Still, right now, I deserve to be out-of-my-mind angry.

Being a cancer survivor means living with acute anxiety. If my cancer recurs, it will most likely be in the first year or two and much more aggressively. I want to live every moment I have to the fullest, but the world is shut down. I ponder whether my life partner John and I will ever again have an intimate dinner with friends, travel to an exotic destiny or go to a ballgame. I chose to fight cancer like a Tasmanian devil with the promise of life if I won mine. This feels like a massive bait and switch.

While I have the right to be hugely teed off, I’m trying like hell to make a different choice. I’m moving away from bitterness, as I learned long ago that sour grapes don’t get me squat. As my surrogate dad used to lovingly remind me, “It is what it is.”

Healthy Habits

So here’s what I’m doing to take my best shot at maintaining remission, keeping my pain in check and, yep, be a COVID survivor.

I’m using my quiet time to learn how to live the healthiest of lifestyle choices so my “terrain” will remain cancer hostile. Besides diet, exercise and finding purpose, this includes stress-management, the “Big Balance” that I’m finally learning  to master. In fact, I’m enjoying shedding my reputation as the woman who gets five things done before breakfast.

It starts with quality sleep, a HUGE challenge due to fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome. These days I’m in bed before 9pm. During this sacred, unwinding time, I don’t listen to COVID coverage or use my iPhone before falling asleep around 11pm. Instead, I meditate, tune into stimulating talk radio, and spend loving time with John and our two kitties. Happy to report I’m sleeping more restoratively than I have in two decades. And it feels like a miracle!

Another new healthy habit is checking in with my body several times a day. I lovingly ask what it needs, then nourish it. I’m deeply listening to its wisdom for the first time in my life. For example, I no longer count my swimming laps, but instead stop when it feels right. And I call it quits with my forever meaningful work before I skid into fatigue. If you know me, you know this is the new me. I’m even learning how to say “no.”  

I occasionally see a few close friends while social distancing, and John and I spend long, relaxing evenings at our neighborhood park. We eat plant-based whole foods (amping up our intake of fruits, veggies, nuts and berries), play backgammon, people/dog watch, and just sit and talk as the sun sets. I’m reconnecting with my love of film, books and music — and I’m considering getting an acting agent for disabled talent, as well as diving deep into French language and culture, a longtime passion of mine.

Perhaps most important, I live in Gratitude. I thank God for every day, for every miracle that knocks at my door. I’ve always been juiced by the big things; now the little things are just as gorgeous and life affirming. And I hold onto hope. You gotta have hope.

Hey, maybe the new normal to come will be glorious. It’s really up to us. We with high-impact pain have adaptive super powers that can lead the way for those newly initiated to serious life upset. We can be the example. Let’s stay calm, mask up, hand wash and do a dance (while six feet-apart).

I’m more than willing to add COVID survivor to my list of making-do-with-the-impossible. I gain strength and grace from knowing we’re in this together.

We got this.      

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and 15 co-morbidities for nearly four decades. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”