Performing at an Eight Out of Ten
- 3 hours ago
- 3 min read
At an orthopedic appointment for severe back pain, I find myself answering repetitive pain-scale questions while quietly enduring awkward commentary about my weight and weekend plans. As I navigate small talk, unsolicited opinions, and my own discomfort, I begin to notice how much we perform politeness in medical spaces. A reassuring diagnosis brings relief—but leaves me wondering whether silence is always the healthiest response.
Quick note: This actually happened to me at the beginning of the year and has been sitting in my drafts ever since. My back healed months ago. Apparently, my motivation to write about it took a little longer.
Pain, Paperwork, and the Art of Holding It Together
I am in agony as I enter the orthopedic surgeon's office. Lifting a suitcase into the overhead bin weeks earlier as I traveled back from visiting family turns out to be a no-no for me. Even though I packed very light over the holidays, my back is staging a major protest. I am practicing composure at an eight out of ten pain level, which feels like an Olympic event no one asked me to compete in.
I fill out the paperwork on a glowing screen perched on the receptionist’s desk. The questions begin.
What is your pain level right now on a scale of one to ten?
Eight.
What is your pain level when you exercise?
Eight.
What is your pain level when resting?
Eight.
Apparently, I am nothing if not consistent.
There are more boxes to check, more permissions to grant, more signatures releasing my lumbar spine results into the bureaucratic universe. I write my ailments down at least five times before being escorted into an examining room where a framed photo of Muhammad Ali signing boxing gloves hangs on the wall. The image is oddly comforting. If he could endure twelve rounds, surely I can survive a waiting room.
Godzilla Takes My Vitals
The resident doctor who comes in to take my vitals has the polished enthusiasm of someone performing bedside charm straight out of a training manual.
“Let’s go ahead and take your blood pressure, shall we?”
The cuff tightens. I inhale deeply, praying my white coat syndrome doesn’t sabotage me.
“115 over 81. Good job!”
Good job? I didn’t realize blood pressure was a group project. Still, I’ll take the gold star.
“So, how much do you weigh?”
“131 pounds.”
He brightens, as if we’ve stumbled onto a festive topic.
“Ooh, looks like you gained weight over the holidays.”
I stare at him. He continues, undeterred.
“Yeah, I packed on the pounds after Christmas too. Gonna start on salads,” he says with a giggle.
I was not aware we were bonding over seasonal fluctuation. For years, in various medical offices, I’ve been told I’m too skinny, that I should gain a few pounds, that it would be healthier. Now this physician’s assistant offers unsolicited editorial advice on my body, trampling through personal territory with the subtlety of Godzilla in a miniature city.
“Any plans for the weekend?”
Are we braiding each other’s hair now? I say nothing. Silence feels safer than sarcasm.
“The doctor will be here in a minute.”
Thank God.
The One Who Actually Listens
I’ve been seeing Dr. Emerson the orthopedist since COVID, mostly for back issues. He’s kind, funny, and committed to exhausting every possible option before even whispering the word surgery. After I describe my symptoms, he nods thoughtfully.
“Let’s get you an X-ray and see what’s going on.”
Godzilla reappears and I follow him down the hall.
“Any plans for the weekend?”
Didn’t we do this already? Am I in a glitching loop?
“No,” I boom out.
“Oh, okay.”
He takes a few images of my lumbar spine and escorts me back without further small talk. Five minutes later, Dr. Emerson returns with the verdict: purely mechanical. No nerve involvement.
Relief floods my body faster than any anti-inflammatory pill ever could. More physical therapy is prescribed. That, I can handle.
Performing Calm When You Want to Snap
Driving home with my aching back, I replay the exchange in my mind and wonder: is it better to stay quiet and simmer, or to speak plainly when someone crosses a line? Does silence preserve peace, or does it quietly chip away at it?
Pain makes everything louder; your nerves, your thoughts, your patience.
And yet, even in discomfort, I notice how often we are performing civility for strangers. Smiling. Nodding. Letting things slide.
Will I get better? Probably.
Will I keep 'performing' and act like everything's ok even when something feels off?
That's a hard 'no.'