Title: Pain

Author: Stephanie de Montalk

In: Sport 33: Spring 2005

Publication details: Fergus Barrowman, 2005

Part of: Sport

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Sport 33: Spring 2005

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Appointments in Nantes proved difficult to arrange. Emails and faxes, Urgent et Confidentiel, went unanswered. Key people were not available to take phone calls, their secretaries all shielding. My GP, fluent in French, spent half an hour on the phone one evening speaking to doctors in hospital corridors, and gave up. 'This is typical of things here,' commiserated a cousin in Toulouse, who had been similarly unsuccessful.

The uncertainty caused the pain to rise. I was aware that studies on wounded male soldiers and civilian patients after major surgery had revealed an interesting response to anxiety. It showed that while four out of the five civilians asked for pain medication, only a third of the soldiers requested relief, despite their greater tissue damage. The pain thresholds of the latter—free of the threat of battle—were higher than those of the civilians whose anxiety about not surviving the surgery had increased the post-operative need for narcotics.

I emailed Houston, Texas instead. Over the phone at four in the morning, I finally spoke to a knowledgeable medic: a sports medicine specialist, who had trapped his pudendal nerve in an accident and undergone surgery in France. Two years later, when he had his 'life back', he had returned to Nantes to work with Drs Labat and Bensignor and Professor Robert. As a result, in 2002 Houston offered the first expert diagnosis and treatment facility in the United States.

'Don't do anything that brings on the pain,' he advised.

'The pain is constant. Does this mean I shouldn't walk?'

'Not if it brings on the pain.'

'I've stopped sitting. Could the nerve spontaneously disengage?'

'No,' said the specialist who was happy for me to come to Houston page 17but agreed that, financially speaking, I would be better to go to France. 'The nerve's had enough; you're at the top of the curve.'

Like Sir Richard Burton, weak and depressed having barely started the march that would lead to the discovery of Lake Tanganyika, I fretted about 'the sorry labour of waiting and reloading asses, the exposure to … morbific influences … the wear and tear of mind at the prospect of imminent failure'.

Like Burton's wife Isobel, who permanently injured her back and ankle after slipping in a Paris hotel, I might have written, 'Strong health and nerves I had hitherto looked upon as a sort of right of nature, and supposed everybody had them, and had never felt grateful for them as a blessing.'

A day later there was a message to contact Professor Robert. He spoke English, and was receptive to the symptoms I listed by phone. In due course, an email questionnaire arrived. Then, after multiple intercessions from friends who spoke French, dates for testing and surgery in August.

I completed the collection of poetry; had my hair cut, standing; on better days met friends for coffee in cafés with counters and bars.

In late July, shortly before leaving for France, the pain's base level had dropped to a Green 'blow to the nose' Three. Was this self-resolution, at last; should I cancel the arrangements in France?

I rang Atlanta, Georgia and spoke to the author of the PNE pain scale, and the website on which I had first made my diagnosis. Formerly entrapped, and freed by Professor Robert, he too had stopped sitting early and reduced his symptoms. On arrival in Nantes almost pain free he had been sent home, only to return the following year.

'It's playing hide and seek,' I said in a panic. 'It's devious and capricious. Soon I'll need it for testing and it might not be there.'

'Start sitting,' he urged. 'You should aim for at least a Three in Nantes for the tests to show cause and effect.'