CRPS Is a Bad Name for a Painful Disease

By Dr. Forest Tennant, PNN Columnist

A few years ago, the “pain powers” of the day decided to change the name of a mysterious painful disease called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD) to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). 

Not long after the name change, I received a telephone call from a reporter who mistakenly believed that “CRPS” meant that chronic pain statistics were now going to be kept by geographical regions.  He wanted to know which regions had the least and worst pain problems.  He sounded rather despondent when I informed him the regions weren’t geographic areas, but referred to parts of the body. 

After a sigh and pause, he asked how many regions there were and where they were located on the body.  I finally had to admit that although I was familiar with legs, arms, buttocks and ears, I hadn’t been able to come to grips with exactly what the body’s regions were or where they were located, as they weren’t mentioned in Gray’s Anatomy.  The reporter apologized for bothering me and said he thought he would focus on prostate issues instead.

Not long after I disappointed the reporter, I attempted to obtain a prior authorization to pay for CRPS medications from a patient’s insurance company.  I had mistakenly assumed that the label CRPS had reached the bowels of the insurance industry, but a grouchy lady on the phone informed me that her insurance company didn’t recognize regional pain and only paid for legitimate painful diseases.  Furthermore, she questioned my ability and sanity, accusing me of creating a fraudulent diagnosis.  At this point, I rightfully decided the CRPS label may have problems!

These episodes underline the point that lots of people with CRPS are being poorly treated due to a name that doesn’t even sound like a legitimate disease or disorder. Their very real illness goes unrecognized and payment for treatment is often denied by their insurance.  At best, the CRPS label trivializes a condition that can be so severe as to force a person into bed, endure great suffering, and die before their time. 

The history of the name CRPS is most telling.  A British surgeon named Alexander Denmark wrote the first known description of a disease like CRPS in about 1812.  He described a soldier injured by a bullet this way:

“I always found him with the forearm bent and in supine position and supported by the firm grasp of the other hand. The pain was of a burning nature, and so violent as to cause a continual perspiration from his face.” 

Another physician who was working with wounded Civil War soldiers, Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell, published his findings in a 1864 monograph entitled “Gunshot Wounds and Other Injuries.” Mitchell described the basic injury as burning pain located in close proximity to the battle wound.  He also described the well-known characteristics of the disorder, including glossy red or mottled skin without hair, atrophic tissue, and severe pain caused by touch or movement. 

In his 1872 book, “Injuries of Nerves and Their Consequences,” Mitchell coined the term “causalgia” which he derived from the ancient Greek words kauaoc (heat) and oayoc (pain) to emphasize the nature of the disorder.

The term causalgia remained in place until about 1946, when Dr. James Evans, a physician at the Lahey Clinic in Burlington, Massachusetts, described 57 patients with injuries similar to those labeled causalgia by Dr. Mitchell.  Evans described his patients as having intense pain and clinical signs that he explained as being due to “sympathetic stimulation.” The patients experienced rubor (redness), pallor, and a mixture of both sweating and atrophy.

This syndrome would appear after fractures, sprains, vascular complications, amputations, arthritis, lacerations, or even minor injuries.  Evans found that sympathetic nerve blocks usually relieved the pain, so he rejected the term causalgia and gave it the name Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD).

The name RSD pretty well replaced causalgia until 1994, when the International Association for the Study of Pain (IASP) changed it to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS).  This change was led by the renowned pain specialist John Bonica, MD, who wanted to shift the focus away from the terms dystrophy, reflex and sympathetic back to pain. 

This argument for the change had validity, in that the condition doesn’t really have a reflex component and sympathetic blockades do not consistently relieve pain.  Also, dystrophy is medically defined as tissue degeneration, such as that caused by diseases of nutrition or metabolism. The IASP wanted the primary focus to be on pain.

Unintended Consequences

While the name changes from causalgia to RSD to CRPS were intended to bring better pain relief to needy patients, there have been several unintended consequences.  In fact, a reasonable argument can be made that the name change has been counterproductive. 

What should CRPS now be called?  It’s doubtful that a new consensus could be quickly developed, as the syndrome is complex and involves multiple issues. 

Frankly, I personally believe we should junk the term CRPS. It trivializes a most serious disorder, and I have found use of the name CRPS actually deprives some patients of the treatment they need.  I have often simply used the term “vascular neuropathy” to effectively educate pharmacies, families, insurance companies and patients about the condition.  At least this term sounds legitimate and serious!

Fortunately, regardless of its name, the syndrome appears to be diminishing both in incidence and severity.  Workplace injuries and vehicular accidents get immediate attention these days, while early medical and physical interventions usually prevent great severity. 

Also, there is now an understanding of centralized pain and its electrical discharges, which are greatly responsible for the so-called “sympathetic” symptoms of the disorder.  Treatments for centralized pain are clearly benefitting persons with this unfortunate disorder, regardless of whatever name you wish to call it.  I would call for a name change but I don’t know who to call!

Forest Tennant, MD, DrPH, is retired from clinical practice but continues his research on the treatment of intractable pain and arachnoiditis through the Tennant Foundation’s Arachnoiditis Research and Education Project and the Intractable Pain Syndrome Research and Education Project.

The Tennant Foundation gives financial support to Pain News Network and sponsors PNN’s Patient Resources section.   

I’m Living Proof That Effective Pain Management Can Heal

By Heather Grace

My journey into what would become debilitating pain began at age 19, when my neck was injured in a head-on collision caused by a drunk driver. Being a backseat passenger in an older car meant there were no headrests.

I healed as best I could after the accident with chiropractic care and exercise. I was young and told myself I’d be fine, but sensed I wasn’t quite the same as before.

Nearly a decade of work in the IT field worsened the severity of my injury, due to faulty ergonomics. Between the severe pain and the horrors of the workers compensation system, it began to feel like I was in free fall. At my first visit with a prominent pain management specialist, I was told, “Normal is out the window for you.”

It was the worst thing I’d ever heard, so I began sobbing. What he said wasn’t actually cruel, it was honest. He could see that my body was broken by work comp care that included two botched neurosurgeries and one spinal discectomy-fusion surgery that came far too late to be a good thing. 

I was left with intractable pain and nerve damage, which would be diagnosed as Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) Type II. The CRPS is not regional at all, but spread to the whole body, thanks to the impact on my spinal column and brain.

I would later also learn that I was born with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a progressive connective tissue disease.

HEATHER GRACE

Intractable Pain Syndrome (IPS) isn’t well understood in mainstream medicine because it’s not very common. In fact, even after working in Continuing Medical Education for 10 years, I’d never heard of IPS until I was diagnosed with it. I didn’t know that it was possible to be in severe unceasing pain.

People with IPS experience major health problems throughout their lives because of the physical and psychological toll that pain takes on the brain and body. Treatment for this complex and disabling condition must be taken seriously and done correctly.

A New Future

After all this was explained to me by my doctor, I realized that to move forward with my life, I had to stop pinning my hopes on returning someday to “normal.” I had to grieve the loss of my former life. Once I did, a door was opened to a meaningful future for me.

Thanks to amazing treatment with a physician who also helped me focus on the future, I’m living again in a way I didn’t think was possible when I first sat down with my doctor in 2006. He found the right treatments for me, which included opioid pain medication.  

I’ve reduced my medication dose slowly over the years. I’m now taking less than one sixth the pain medication I started with. That’s because I’ve experienced neurogenesis, a form of healing in my nervous system.

It is possible for people like me to heal, albeit very slowly over time when they get the care that they need. Despite the severity of my conditions, I’m doing well. Contrary to popular opinion, patients who get the proper dose of pain meds don’t always require more and more medication. While some patients’ dosages stay the same, some of us are able to lower our doses when our health improves.  

I’ve come so far. In 2004, when I left the job I loved awaiting two major surgeries, I thought I’d never work again. But I was able to obtain a full-time job (with benefits!) in 2020. It required a major effort, but I got here because I had a good foundation of long-term effective pain management, which lessened the impact of pain on my overall wellness.

Opioid medication does not define my care, nor my life. Pain meds are merely a tool I’ve used to get well. Every patient should have access to individualized pain care with the treatment options that best work for them. It’s crucial for patients if they’re ever going to see their health improve.

I won’t lie, it’s been a struggle and I have had my share of setbacks too. Yet I know without question that pain medication was required in my case. It made a serious difference in my overall health and paved the way to my future too.  

Effective pain management for someone with IPS is as vital as care for any other serious illness. You’d never tell a diabetic that an arbitrary maximum dose of insulin was all they were allowed to have. Why are pain patients any different? None of us asked for the pain, nor do we like having to take a prescription drug that’s so socially maligned. These judgments exist nowhere outside of pain management. Why are people in pain treated so differently and with such suspicion?  

The fact is, when the CDC’s opioid prescribing guideline was released in 2016, the consequences were far-reaching and dire. Countless patients have needlessly suffered and died because they lost access to opioids or were tapered, based on the guideline’s recommendations. Many of those deaths have been due to the pain finally overtaking the body. Other patients have chosen to end their pain via suicide. Imagine being so ill that you were forced to make such a choice!  

Without access to effective individualized treatment by physicians whose options aren’t stifled by a system that doesn’t understand pain, many more people with serious diagnoses will develop intractable pain.

Those outside the treatment setting have no business undermining patients’ pain care protocols. They simply don’t have the knowledge to be involved on that level. That goes for the CDC, DEA, state medical boards and insurance companies — along with anyone else who gets in the way of pain patients having effective care. 

Sadly, I know it’s the workers compensation system that led to the severity of my illness. I got an extensive education on how an overburdened system not designed for people with serious healthcare needs can result in disability.  

Please don’t jeopardize the future of an entire branch of medicine any further. There are human lives on the line. Everyone knows someone living with chronic pain. Make the changes needed to continue treating people like me — people whose lives don’t have to end because they have a serious injury or illness. It’s crucial to roll back the damage done by the CDC guideline before we all lose access to pain management forever.

Heather Grace is a patient, advocate and member of For Grace’s Board of Governors. She’s worked for health-focused nonprofits most of her career & developed Continuing Medical Education (CME) for nearly a decade. Heather lives with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome II and the genetic condition Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Heather has a website on pain issues called Intractable Pain Journal.

Breathless: My Anger at a Failing Body

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

Once upon a time, life was easy. Breathing was a breeze, lungs filled with promise and hope.

Then I got sick. Really sick. Of late, when I look back at the last forty years, I’m uncharacteristically angry that my Complex Regional Pain Syndrome stole my life, taking that breath away.

I’m spitting mad that my body keeps failing me. It’s seemingly giving me the finger for having a positive attitude and taking care of myself, as all I get is sicker and sicker. I’m tired of being the good sport, forever the one with “super human strength” who flashes a smile no matter what.

I hate 2022, as it’s trending to be my most miserable year yet. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. To start, I had a monster of a virus all of January, most of March, and my symptoms are here again in mid-April. I can’t shake this ever-revolving bug that perplexes my doctors.

They can’t figure out my debilitating fatigue, laryngitis and diarrhea, all complimented by vertigo and, yes, difficulty breathing. Even my once heavenly swims have turned into an exercise of wheezing and gasping.

I recently got a work-up including labs and chest x-ray, but everything came out normal. A friend mentioned her concern that I might have symptoms of an impending heart attack. Yeah, wouldn’t be surprised.

I’m also mad as hell because COVID never ends. At least not for me. When we were all in this together, the isolation was do-able. In fact, it was comforting because, for once, I wasn’t the only one alone.

But now I’m left behind because being immuno-compromised with an assembly of autoimmune conditions puts me at high risk for long COVID. I feel lonelier than ever watching the world reconnect, while hearing of new variants and upcoming surges.

To top it off, my vaccines and booster shots were hell. With each dose, I’m left reeling with intense fibro flares, hives and many of my previous chemotherapy side-effects. Oh, did I mention I fought Triple Negative Breast Cancer in 2020, the WORST thing I’ve ever been through?

Breathe, Cynthia. Breathe.      

And then there’s this. During the rare times I escape the condo, N95 dutifully strapped on, I resent the never-ending pity looks and pointing because I use a wheelchair. Folks, it’s been FOUR DECADES of this transportation humiliation. I feel like I’m going to lose it the next time someone looks beyond me to ask my partner John what my name is. Or gives me the classic, “It’s so good that people like you get out.”

I find myself staring in awe at people who can walk without a thought. They’re free and don’t even know it. I must admit, these days I resent them for it. When I’m outside, seems it’s always just me and some little old man who are in this wheeled imprisonment. I even resent the old man, cuz he got his turn at life.

This post wouldn’t be complete without exhaling a potentially catastrophic cliff-hanger. Yeah, I’m talking about the aforementioned “Big C.” Since remission, I live in constant fear that it will recur much more aggressively in the first two years, what Triple-Negative is masterful at!

A few days ago, I went in for my periodic breast exam, a ritual that keeps me from hyperventilating during my MRIs. The exams have always been clear, which helps me get through the maelstrom of “scanxiety.”

I felt oddly confident this go-around, even enjoying small talk with my oncologist. After all, this was the lead up to my two-year MRI. I was almost home free when the energy in the room shifted. Completely. My doctor found an enlarged lymph node under my arm that he thinks is a recurrence. Or, better yet, a whole new cancer.

I’m suffocating.   

While I await my imaging results, I’m short-tempered and yell a lot. The cats run under the bed. Fearing the worst, I wonder if my body can fight aggressive cancer again. Let’s face it, I won’t have a good shot the second time around.

Also, in my darkest moments, I’m not certain I have a life worth fighting for. I love myself deeply, but am struggling these days to find gratitude in a world that feels devoid of grace.

I don’t get it. I swear, I’ve been a good person my whole life. I’ve played by the rules, worked hard and always helped the less fortunate.

People tell me to be positive, but I’m just angry. Maybe my rage will turn back to strength and unflagging perseverance. Maybe not. All I know is that I can’t catch my breath. 

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 became a cancer survivor in 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”

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.

COVID Vaccine Anxiety: What If You Are Immunocompromised?

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

In the midst of our once-in-a-century pandemic, it’s my deep belief that we all have a responsibility to get the COVID vaccine in hopes of extracting ourselves and each other from this crisis. We’re in this together, and if we do our part, we’ll get out of these dire straits faster and with fewer deaths.

That being said, there’s no doubt that getting a full dose is a rockier, less certain road for those of us who are immunocompromised, whether by current treatment (organ transplant, chemotherapy, etc.), wrangling with years of severe chronic illness, or both.

It disturbs and angers me that we were left out of the vaccine trials, but we can’t fight or fix that familiar marginalization now. We also can’t use that as an excuse to sit on the sidelines.

Courage remains our best ally.

Before my first vaccine, I was facing surgery for cancer and was frantic to get dosed as older folk at my swimming hole were already going mask-less. I couldn’t afford to be left behind because my upcoming treatment was dangerous and I was labeled “highest risk” for severe COVID – this due to being immunocompromised from four decades of high-impact pain and five months of chemotherapy.

With that first poke, I was relieved to initially go relatively unscathed, side-effect wise, with only a headache and “COVID arm.” But that arm soon went to hell. For four days I couldn’t move it without shrieking. I imagined this would be the feeling of a bullet piercing my skin, something I’ve heard from other immunocompromised sisters. More bizarre, after my COVID arm eased, it returned a week later with the damp weather.

When my second vaccine date approached, I was anxious, feeling like a guinea pig because even healthy people were getting pretty darn sick with this bookend dose. It spooked me to see the fear in the eyes of my 40-year partner and caregiver after he got his. John rarely gets sick, but his two-day bout with crippling fatigue reduced him to someone struggling to take care of himself, let alone being there fulltime for me.

But I persisted.

Just after receiving that dose, I posted my concern on Facebook, and someone was kind enough to share a National Public Radio article about immunocompromised people and the vaccine. The article supported my firm belief that everyone needs to be vaccinated, while pointing out that as a result of not being part of the study group, its efficacy was not entirely known.

Additionally, researchers urged us to work with our doctors to time treatment with the vaccine for safety and effectiveness – as immune deficiency can compromise potency. I was troubled that my doctor hadn’t weighed these considerations when urging me to get the vaccine pronto.

I had one bone to pick with the article. It mentioned that enough immunocompromised folk had been vaccinated to gain assurance that it would not ignite a flare, stating that side-effects often resembled auto-immune symptoms. I was dubious as most everyone I know with pain had flared significantly.

Still, I’d made my decision. I threw caution to the wind and gingerly decided that I’d respond like a healthy person. I was only going to be sick for a couple of days.

Side Effects From Second Dose

At first I was on track with just a few symptoms, including that familiar headache and low-grade COVID arm. But by the first night, I was quite ill. High fever, chills, fatigue and muscle aches. While those symptoms can be part of a bad reaction for a healthy person, my illness lasted longer than what would be expected. In fact, I was sick for almost a week.

And oddly, mid-week after my fever broke, I woke in the night super-hot, sweaty and chilled again. I suspect I was having a vaccine relapse, something I’ve not heard from others. It didn’t come as a surprise that my CRPS flared badly that week too.  

What threw me for a loop was having many of my long-gone, chemo side-effects return. I had severe spatial difficulties, causing me to run into walls and spill glasses of juice. More unpleasant reminders of those wretched days included distorted eyesight and hearing, a bladder infection, my heart beating too hard, neuropathy, anemia and painful joints and muscles. In fact, one day my hamstring (the original site of my CRPS injury) sprung out of place and I screamed bloody murder until it popped back, allowing me to move.

While those troubles have mostly resolved, my worst two chemo redux symptoms are hanging on a bit longer. Today, five weeks after that shot, I’m still having a hard time holding my back up straight without pain, something unsettling for this former ballerina who prides herself on proper posture.

Perhaps worse, my food tastes a bit like there’s chemo in it. I can get through meals without needing a barf bag, but recently gagged on my water for the first time, post-chemo. At times it’s difficult to touch my tongue to my teeth and to breathe in, due to the rancid taste. 

Despite it all, I’m on the mend and ecstatic that I’m fully vaccinated. It feels damn awesome to know that I made the best self-care decision and the best one for the world. When I get news of friends dying from COVID or see photos of people in the ICU, intubated and at the edge, this is a no brainer. The vaccine is far less dangerous than the virus, and everyone has to pull their weight.

Before rolling up your sleeve though, I advise that, if you are immunocompromised, be prepared to have a longer, more severe adverse reaction. Many of my sisters in pain did, and I had a much tougher road due to chemo. So, stock up your pantry, prep some meals, make accommodations for work and kids and be prepared to bunker down for a spell. Also, I think you’d be wise to have a discussion with your doctor to determine best timing to minimize suffering and optimize efficacy. 

Let’s keep this in mind. We, the mighty immunocompromised, are tougher than the rest. We’re independent, having learned through the most rugged of knocks how to care for ourselves. We also tend to think of others – as we know going it alone is a one-way ticket to malady.  As such, we know the importance of keeping our loved ones and communities healthy.

We can do this. The decision to get the vaccine is about being kind to ourselves and to each other. And in my book, that’s what life is only and all about.              

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

My Cancer Is Back: Facing Surgery With CRPS

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

After hearing the worst words of my life, “Your cancer has grown back,” I felt hopeless and hated the world. Worse, I had to tell my longtime partner and caregiver, John, the grim news. How could we pull up our frayed boot straps again and survive yet another impossible health crisis?

Since getting Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) four decades ago, people often use words like “fighter,” “pain warrior” and “super human” to describe me. The most recent catch phrase is, “Cynth, you got this!”

I’ve come to detest this perceived awesomeness. I don’t want to be an uber-person. I never did. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. And I long for a slice of vanilla-flavored normal.

As the owner of CRPS and 19 comorbidities, I could not afford the diagnosis of triple negative breast cancer, the most aggressive form. But that’s what was delivered, since luck has never been this lady’s lot.

Without consulting me, the universe long ago decided that I’m supposed to slay every dragon while surviving never ending illness and trauma. This latest hell-news has filled me with anger, rage and major depression.

So much so, that for the first time ever, I’m isolating. This social butterfly has returned to her cocoon, unable to feel joy.

I can’t sleep as I’m plagued by night terrors. Each afternoon, my body trembles uncontrollably. Once heavenly activities, like meditation, exercising and eating, are now chores.

John massages my taut muscle tension through the days and nights – and my IBS has gone haywire. My bubbly spirit is absent and what’s left is demoralized.

And not so long ago, I thought I had this thing licked.

Early last year, after six months of weighing my impossible-with-CRPS treatment options, I started aggressive chemotherapy knowing that this regimen could leave me with a life not worth living. The dream was that my pain would stay in check and I’d achieve a Clinical Complete Response (cancer that cannot be seen with imaging). I’m certain chemotherapy almost ended me, as I was left with virtually no immune system. As a bonus, this was during COVID. 

I was coined a “super responder” when I miraculously accomplished a complete response. At that point, the odds were strongly in my favor that the cancer was gone. But the only way to be sure was to do the follow-up standard of care surgery, which I chose to forego because, with CRPS, surgery is, well, not an option.

The doctors were floored by how well I did, and every indicator leaned toward a clean pathology report. I was ready to move on with my life, one that I felt I’d earned by doing everything right (diet, exercise, stress management, good sleep – the whole kit and caboodle!) One doctor commented, “Don’t even look at the survival numbers. They don’t apply to you anymore.”   

True to form, things went as far south as possible. Because I’m one of the unlucky ones who’s cancer stem cells never went away, my malignancy is growing back. This is not a “recurrence,” but a “persistence” because the chemo didn’t hold.

And now that my complete response is gone, I’ll never have my prior odds. John has lamented for years, “You NEVER get a break!” and I’m finally seeing it his way.

For a chance of survival, I must now have – ta daaa!! – surgery. The doctors tell me my best shot is to do a lumpectomy with follow-up radiation or a stand-alone mastectomy.

Tragically, radiation is off the table as it often causes neuropathic pain. In fact, a radiologist who I respect told me flat out, “I can’t ethically do it to you.” And during a recent visit with my surgeon, she strongly advised that, due to CRPS, I’m not a candidate for a mastectomy, let alone reconstructive surgery. Wow.

Finding a New Care Team

Adding insult to injury, out of nowhere, my lead oncologist dropped me! She did so due to questionable guidance (something I can’t detail here) and is fearful of litigation, which doesn’t make it hurt less. This woman had become my hero and I trusted her with my heart and life. Her betrayal has been soul-crushing and created a crisis of faith. I don’t know who or what to believe in anymore.

But through the shadows, I’m quietly planning my next move – and will take on Round Two one slow... step… at… a... time. I’m assembling a new-and-improved care team to up my odds, including an oncologist, acupuncturist, physical therapist, pain specialist and psychologist. I’ve sweetened the pot with an EMDR (an effective technique for trauma release) practitioner who specializes in people with CRPS. Heck, I’ve even lined up the use of a heated pool in these COVID shutdown days.    

I’m going to have a lumpectomy, a word I can still barely say, let alone write. The scariest part is that my surgeon will also remove a possibly involved lymph node in a nerve rich area, ripe for ample, new pain. My new oncologist is concerned that due to a surgery-induced CRPS flare, my arm may freeze up and become a non-functional torture machine.

Even if the surgery mercifully works without condemning me back to bed, this wouldn’t flip me a “get-out-of-jail-free” card. Because I can only do the “minor” surgery without radiation, my odds of a quick recurrence remain high. This means I’ll be on the prowl for some off-the-grid insurance, perhaps low-dose chemo or an immunotherapy clinical trial. But neither can measure up to the standard of care radiation.

God, to be well enough to be sick!         

So, here I am again, looking down the barrel of a gun, knowing it likely has a bullet with my name on it. Like I said, I’m tired and angry. I’m up to my ass with picking the lesser of two evils, and having to crack the code of the near impossible.

Give me a break, already! And I don’t mean this in a small way. I’m shouting out to the big, bad, ice cold universe that I hope, somewhere, somehow, has a heart.

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.” 

Advocacy Group Seeks to Expand Insurance Coverage of Ketamine

By Pat Anson, PNN Editor

A coalition of patients and healthcare providers is launching an effort to expand insurance coverage for ketamine, a non-opioid anesthetic increasingly used to treat chronic pain, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Ketamine is typically administered by infusion under strict medical supervision, a process that that can take up to an hour and cost thousands of dollars. The first goal of the Ketamine Taskforce is to get ketamine infusions fully covered by Medicare.

“Medicare doesn’t officially pay for ketamine infusions. What they will pay for is a generic infusion code similar to if someone was getting an antibiotic infused. The level of reimbursement is very low,” says Kimberley Juroviesky, a retired nurse practitioner and task force co-chair who receives ketamine infusions for Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). 

“Since these reimbursement rates are so low, the majority of small ketamine clinics don’t accept insurance. This leaves the majority of pain patients without the pain relief they could otherwise be benefiting from.”

Ketamine is approved by the Food and Drug Administration as a surgical anesthetic, but a growing number of ketamine clinics provide off-label infusions for depression, PTSD and difficult chronic pain conditions such as CRPS. The infusions put patients into a hypnotic, dream-like state — leaving them with less physical and emotional pain once the ketamine wears off. Many insurers consider this off-label use experimental.

“If we could get Medicare to officially put ketamine on their schedule as a treatment for chronic pain, this would hopefully raise reimbursement rates to a level where all providers could afford it. Also, this would force private insurers to pay for ketamine infusions as well and no longer refuse to pay saying it’s experimental,” Juroviesky said in an email. 

PNN columnists Barby Ingle and Madora Pennington have both had ketamine infusions, Barby for CRPS and Madora while recovering from foot surgery.

“The swelling in my foot dramatically improved. Chronic, low-grade discomfort along my spine also disappeared. I felt emotional relief from past trauma, from pain and other life experiences,” Madora explained.

“I went into the hospital in a wheelchair, but walked out on my own a week later,” said Barby, after seven days of ketamine infusions. She now gets “booster” infusions four times a year and no longer takes daily pain medication.

Some ketamine users report lingering side effects, such as hallucinations and visual disturbances. 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 short-term acute pain.

“Excluding CRPS, there was no evidence supporting ketamine infusions for intermediate or long-term improvements in pain," the guidelines warn.

The Ketamine Taskforce is working with a consortium of ketamine clinics, collecting data on the safety and efficacy of infusions. That research will be shared with the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS) in an effort to expand Medicare coverage of ketamine for pain and mental health conditions.

A Grumpy Old Lady in Pain

By Rochelle Odell, PNN Contributor

As I lay once again, in pain, waiting for my small dose of pain meds to kick in, I stare at the dark ceiling, asking, begging God to please help me. There is nothing but silence around me except for the low volume of my TV.

I find my patience, what little I had, is now gone. I find myself writing a post on Facebook that perhaps did not have to be as blunt as it was or as challenging -- as even I recognized it to be. 

Am I judging others in this battle? Has my nearly 28-year battle with CRPS and it's incessant, never ending pain turned me into someone I am not thrilled about? Am I judging good people, in pain like me, too harshly at times?

I find some online comments are made with little thought or logic by others. I know and tell people there is only one person or deity that can judge anyone and that's the man upstairs, God. And in all honesty, I don't have the right to criticize anyone for what they say or do, except for liberals. Okay, cardinal rule, don't bring politics into our battle for pain relief. I am sorry.

Why do those who obviously haven't read an article or post refuse to admit that their response makes no sense? I spend a lot of time reading articles, but many don't and I feel if you can't find the time to read, don't comment. There are times I may read a post that really galls me and I respond critically, then I think of those I may have upset.

Why did I do or say what I did? I guess because like all in pain, I am tired. Tired of hurting, tired of fighting to get pain management back to where it should be for all. Especially tired of the few wannabes who think it's cool to be part of the pain community -- a community we would all give anything not to be a part of.

The very few I do challenge proudly boast of the ever-growing list of ailments that they wear as a badge of honor. They proudly state no doctor will agree or diagnose them with any of the pain diseases that they have self-diagnosed. You know the type. They have gone down the list of symptoms, convinced they surely must have it.

For shame. They honestly believe they have been wronged. Those people bother me, because there are many who suffer unrelenting pain from diseases physicians have actually diagnosed. I have been diagnosed with several and I want no part of them. I do try to stick with the CRPS only. It was the first and worst of what ails me.

ROCHELLE ODELL

Adding more or reading off what I call our laundry list of ailments won't change my low dose of opioid pain medication. My pain management PA is very sweet and compassionate, but we all know that high doses of opioids are nothing but a memory. A memory of when we used to function. I want my life back without pain and without needing medication. We all want our lives back... period!

I have my life friends who I’ve known since childhood, and new friends I’ve met in the pain community. Like my family, they mean the world to me. Each person brings something I may need or I bring something to them that they need. Pain brought us together. And if it weren't for pain, our paths would never have crossed.

My life has spanned seven decades, sometimes flying by and other times dragging by ever so slowly. The adventures I had, the experiences, I wouldn't trade for anything. I am thankful to have experienced what I did. Too many pain patients don't, especially younger ones. All they know is pain. They can only dream of traveling the world like I did. Those of us who had a life before pain were able to experience places, people and things. The memories are bittersweet.

I suppose at 73 that I am old, very opinionated and faced with the reality God can come knocking on my door anytime. Although for some reason the age of 93 is set in my mind when he will take me. Can't imagine living in this pain for twenty more years.

I have learned in this pain journey that I don't have to win every argument. I don't have to win every point. That if I ignore an annoying Facebook post and simply log off, I don't develop a killer stress headache trying to prove I was right. Being right all the time makes for a probably obnoxious person. I don't want to be that way, I really don't, but it is my reality, my life, me.

When thinking of love, I have loved and have been in love. Do I want to be married again? Odds are no. Like most, I don't want to live my golden years alone but I have become so set in my ways, set in my routine, set in how I choose to live any day my way. If I want to wear my jammies all day and not comb my hair, I can. If another person was around, I would have expectations placed on me I may not want.

But I also get so tired of battling pain with no real source of help I can depend on. I have only me to depend on. I am not the only one alone and we do hurt the most.

If my pain is severe and I want to cry, I can, with no explanations. Although if I do cry my little sidekick Maggie, an 8-year-old dachshund, gets right next to my face crying with me. Don't have any humans that sit next to me and cry with me, although I know of some sweet pain friends who would if I asked. Little Maggie has been so vocal. I look at her and ask do I really sound that bad, that pathetic? Yes!

I don't want to come across as judgmental or too critical. I don't want to be the mean old lady in the neighborhood. But you know what? Living in pain, alone for close to 28 years, well, if the shoe fits...

If my comments come across as mean, try to remember pain has changed us all. I see that in the pain community. 'A' can't stand 'B' and 'B' is thoroughly disgusted with 'C.' Meanwhile, 'D' shakes their head asking why? Why do we say and act in ways that may not be nice?

Guess I will set the timer on my TV, pray to God one more time to please take my pain away, and close my eyes hoping sleep comes, if even for a couple of hours. And pray those around me understand why this grumpy old woman says what she does.

Rochelle Odell lives in California.

PNN invites other readers to share their stories with us. Send them to editor@painnewsnetwork.org.

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.” 

How Ketamine Infusions Helped Me

By Madora Pennington, PNN Columnist

Berkley Jones is a tough lady. Already a nurse, she joined the U.S. Air Force in her late 30’s, even though she had never run a mile in her life. She worked hard, made it through boot camp and went directly into officer training.

Her life changed after an allergic reaction so severe it required hospitalization. Berkeley never felt the same. Aching and tired, an immunologist diagnosed her with fibromyalgia. Berkley powered on.

Then, during a training exercise that simulated medical scenarios that might happen from a nuclear attack, she severely injured her arm. She awoke after surgery with her arm swollen to five times its normal size and feeling like it was on fire. The pain was unbearable. This was the beginning of her life with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS).

For the next six years, her life was consumed by pain. Berkley tried everything doctors recommended. Nothing eased her agony. Wheelchair-bound, she left the military. “I basically stayed in bed most of the time. I was very depressed and in pain,” she recalls.

Berkley heard of ketamine from a friend, looked around and was accepted into a ketamine for CRPS study. She checked into the hospital for 5 days of intravenous ketamine infusions. The results were life-changing.

“By the end of the study I was able to use a cane instead of a wheelchair. I was able to get out of bed and my pain was down to livable levels,” she says.

Berkley went on to write a book, “Ketamine Infusions: A Patient's Guide” and organized Facebook groups to educate patients and doctors about ketamine.

From Anesthetic to Party Drug

Ketamine has become a trendy new treatment for pain and depression, but it’s actually been around for decades. Chemists first discovered ketamine in 1956. By the 1960s, it was in widespread use as an anesthetic, from veterinary offices to battlefields. Ketamine is only approved by the FDA for depression, anesthesia and post-surgical acute pain — which makes its use as a treatment for chronic pain off-label.

Ketamine is not an opioid and does not suppress breathing, making it relatively safe to use. But it does produce an unusual state of dissociation. Patients appear awake, but are often unable to respond to sensory input.

Because the experience is similar to psychosis (delirium, delusions or hallucinations), ketamine also became an underground party drug.

More and more uses are being found for this very unique compound. Ketamine triggers production of glutamate in the brain, which makes connections in the brain regrow. Cognition and mood improve as the brain gets a reboot from the damage of long-term stress that leads to excessive negative thoughts and feelings.

For chronic pain sufferers, ketamine temporarily reverses “central sensitization,” where the brain and spinal nerves receive so much pain input, they go off kilter and the slightest touch becomes painful. This can get so bad that some chronic pain sufferers come to find odors, light and sound extremely painful. Brain fog, poor memory, poor concentration and intense anxiety also happen as part of this cycle of pain overload.

Low Dose Ketamine

While hospitals treat chronic pain patients with multi-day, high dose infusions of ketamine, outpatient clinics have sprouted up around the country, offering less intense treatment with lower doses.

I began seeing anesthesiologist Dr. David Mahjoubi, of Ketamine Healing Clinic of Los Angeles this year. My foot was very swollen, weeks after surgery. I was looking for a way to reduce the inflammation without stopping the healing process, as ice, NSAIDs and steroids tend to do. I was fortunate to get an appointment, as some LA clinics have a two-year waiting list for infusions.

Dr. Mahjoubi explained ketamine to me this way: “It increases connections between brain cells, thus ‘rewiring’ brain circuitry. Ketamine also blocks pain receptors called NMDA. This is the mechanism for blocking pain. For persons with PTSD, the trauma seems to get processed in a mild, non-troubling way. Ketamine separates one from their anxiety or depression. A ‘release’ is how patients commonly describe it.”

In Dr. Mahjoubi’s experience, ketamine infusions multiple days in a row can be a bit tough. Spreading them out over several weeks can still get good results. It depends on the individual and the amount of relief they receive.

I was afraid to try ketamine, but agreed to a low dose, one-hour infusion. The swelling in my foot dramatically improved. Chronic, low-grade discomfort along my spine also disappeared. I felt emotional relief from past trauma, from pain and other life experiences.  

I continued with one low dose infusion every few weeks. I don’t like the experience of the infusion, but it has been well worth it.

I was relieved of minor aches and able to increase my exercise. I did not feel terror when pain kicked in. Sometimes the pain just floated away.

I no longer feared my physical therapist touching my neck, and noticed I was enjoying it. My mood improved and I felt smarter. My ability to concentrate and remember improved. 

My neighbor’s annoying dog sounded like he was a few houses away, not barking inside my head.

MADORA PENNINGTON GETTING AN INFUSION

I felt more connected with others and more accepting of life — less anxious, less terrorized, less inclined to ruminate after every infusion.

I do tend to have fatigue or short periods of intense emotion, which is not unusual. For me, this is just hard work on my health, like going to physical therapy.

Treatment for Depression

Tara Dillon, a nurse practitioner, opened Happier You, a ketamine clinic in Columbus, Ohio, after infusions helped her 20-year struggle with depression. She’s had good results treating patients with psychiatric complaints, such as depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder.

“It's well-known that pain and psychiatric diagnoses, particularly depression, tend to coincide. Patients often report physical improvements such as relief from IBS, improved sleep, or increased energy after ketamine therapy,” she explained. “While everyone is nervous for the first infusion, since they don't know what to expect, most patients end up enjoying the experience.”

Tara usually starts with a low dose of 0.5mg ketamine over 40 minutes, but will titrate up depending on how a patient responds. The most common side effect is mild nausea. Ketamine is not a cure for chronic pain, and it takes time to have an effect.

“For me, ketamine never kicks in immediately. Some people get relief in the first week. It takes at least two weeks and for some, like me, it can take 3 to 4 weeks,” says Berkley Jones. “Once it does kick in, I usually have low pain levels for about 6 to 8 weeks and then they start to climb again. Sometimes overnight the pain comes back excruciating, but the majority of the time it’s a slow increase in my pain back to where it was.” 

Unfortunately, insurance won’t always cover ketamine. While the drug itself is cheap, the infusions are expensive because patients must be monitored. That is a real shame, as high-impact chronic pain affects 20 million adults in the United States. This is terrible burden not only to the sufferer, but to their loved ones and the community. Perhaps this will change if and when ketamine is FDA approved as a treatment for chronic pain.

Madora Pennington lives with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Sher writes about EDS and life after disability at LessFlexible.com. Her work has also been featured in the Los Angeles Times.

The Wisdom of CRPS: Making My Final Cancer Treatment Decision

By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

A year ago when I got my triple-negative breast cancer diagnosis, the second dreadful thought that ran through my head – perhaps worse than the Big C – was that for any chance at survival I had to once again enter the horrific world of western medicine, a system that for decades had brought me only misery when it came to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS).

After five months of researching and contemplating what might be my most hopeful and least harmful treatment strategy, I began chemotherapy with a healthy level of trepidation. While chemo torture can only be described as indescribable, I was stunned and pleased to do well out of the gates. In fact, my tumor disappeared during week one.

In all, I miraculously completed 17 chemo infusions while escaping lethal complications, only because my integrative doctor, Dr. Malcolm Taw, kept a check on my oncologist’s over-treatment. Let it be known that when some people die from “complications of cancer,” they’re really dying from doctors taking that lethal risk due to money and/or hubris. A personal example is the week my infusion nurse refused to administer chemo because my blood count was so low she was afraid I’d get an infection and die.

My oncologist’s goal for me was 18 infusions, a ridiculously high number that I began questioning when I hit twelve. My hair was already growing back, while my body was rabidly flushing the drugs out of my system (don’t ask).

I couldn’t find anyone, in person or on the internet, who’d done more than 12 infusions. Scarier, an oncologist who filled in one morning shared with me that at no time in his career had he seen someone order so many.

My guess is that because my oncologist and the massive health system she works for are aggressively working to prove this chemo regimen is a keeper, 18 would seal the deal for their final report.   

CYNTHIA TOUSSAINT

I reluctantly marched on with this needless torture for one reason. My oncologist fed me a steady diet of fear, western medicine at its best.

To keep me in line, I dealt with verbal assaults like, “Your cancer’s going to grow right back if you take a week off.” Another was the golden oldie, “I don’t like your questions!” And after the last infusion went south, I was speared with, “All of my other patients want to live.”

The reason I didn’t graduate at the top of my chemo class of one was that, while driving home from number 17, my hands and feet felt like they were bursting into flames while fireworks popped. When John got me upstairs to our condo, he took a picture of the beet-red appendages, my expression frighteningly pale.

After being hideously ill for four days, which is typical as side-effects are cumulative, one afternoon I played the piano for a few minutes and out of nowhere my CRPS, mixed with chemo and my new friend, neuropathy, appeared without mercy in my wrists and hands. As of this writing, five weeks later, I’ve had little let up. While my idiot oncologist never took my CRPS seriously, I’m suffering at a level 9-10 pain and laboring to navigate a world built for people with hands.

So much for number 18, which broke my heart. I’m a goal-oriented gal, and desperately wanted closure for trauma release. At infusion centers, people get to know each other, who lives and who doesn’t, and it’s a big deal when a patient completes their chemo course. The nurses do a hip-hip-hurrah, ring a bell and everyone gets to say goodbye and good luck. I gave it my crazy-strong best, but as usual, CRPS made my decision.

And it would make my next.

Despite not getting the last infusion in, I hit a home run. No, a grand slam. Confirmed with follow-up imaging, I’d achieved a clinical “Complete Response” – the best I could do and hope for. Turns out I’m what they call a “super responder.”

Standard of care dictates that with triple-negative cancer, complete response or not, surgery is mandated (lumpectomy and lymph node removal) to confirm all microscopic malignancies are gone.

This knowing had been looming like a dark cloud since my diagnosis. CRPS and surgery don’t make good bedfellows, as the cutting and tissue extracting tends to fire up nerves that can spark a full-blown CRPS flare. My past has taught me my flares can last a month. Or a lifetime.  

Still deeply influenced by my doctor’s fear-mongering, I kept coming back to surgery despite its risks and my gut telling me to go another way. For once in my life, I wished I’d been well enough to do all the goddamn treatments without having to work around my never-ending pain. Bottom line, I wanted my best shot at living.

But live how? After surgery, would I be left with a life worth living?

The pulsating, burning pain in my hands and wrists provided this answer too. My body told me, unequivocally, that surgery would leave me with the mother-of-all pulsating burning pain. Body-wide and never ending. 

Traumatized that I couldn’t make this big decision, my life-partner, John, reminded me that CRPS has made all of my decisions for me. It didn’t allow me to have a child. I still can’t marry John after 40 years. And it eviscerated my career, one I still yearn for every day. I’m angry that my disease boxes me into corners and knee-caps me at every turn.

Even so, I left fear behind and went toward the light. John and I found three studies, including a meta-analysis, that support de-escalating treatment for triple-negative complete responders. While still early and controversial, these studies show that women who choose active surveillance in lieu of surgery post-chemo live just as long and well -- dare I say even better -- than those who go under the knife.

My integrative doctor, and even my surgeon, are strongly backing my decision – as does my pain doctor who wryly commented, “I don’t see any reason to poke the bear.” 

I’m damn certain that the decision I’ve made to forego surgery will be the standard of care in 15 to 20 years – and that I’m the future. I know deep inside that my CRPS, for all of its hell and fury, is pointing me into a smarter, wiser decision than the one fear would have driven me to. 

This “super responder” is in remission, and moving on…              

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.” 

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