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Tag: chronic pelvic pain

  • A Modest Proposal to Save Mothers’ Lives

    A Modest Proposal to Save Mothers’ Lives

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    At the busy county hospital where I did my medical residency, we cared for patients with every imaginable problem. But one part of treatment was always the same: As soon as it was deemed medically safe, a physical or occupational therapist would visit each and every patient. In the intensive-care unit, a physical therapist might assist a patient into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. An occupational therapist might help her relearn how to hold a fork after weeks of being fed by a tube. On the general-medical and surgical wards, at least one or two patients could always be found walking the long hallways with a walker or cane, a strong and amiable physical therapist keeping pace beside them, casually asking crucial questions: “Are there any stairs in your home?” “Who does the laundry and cooking?” “Who will be around to help you?”

    But there was one area of the hospital where physical and occupational therapists weren’t involved in patient care: the maternity ward. In many hospitals, this is still true. Although I now work in outpatient OB-GYN care, my colleagues in Labor and Delivery confirm that PT/OT doesn’t have a large presence there. Amy Willats, a nurse-midwife in the San Francisco Bay Area, told me that she orders physical therapy for new mothers only in rare circumstances—“when someone is in so much pain, they can’t walk to the bathroom.” As for occupational therapy, she said, “it’s not even on my radar.”

    Some physical and occupational therapists want this status quo to change. They believe that everyone who gives birth should receive a PT/OT evaluation prior to discharge, with the same goal as for any other hospitalized patient: to prepare them to move around safely and comfortably at home. I remember how easily, in the chaotic world of the hospital, I could overlook the quiet work of physical and occupational therapists. But the extra layer of attention and care they provide could help millions of new mothers recover faster—and may even save lives.

    Pregnant women and new mothers are, in a sense, different from other hospitalized patients. Doctors tend to think of them as healthy young people undergoing a normal, natural process, one that should require serious medical intervention only occasionally. This is how my patients tend to see themselves too—and most of them do go on to live normal, if changed, lives. By this philosophy, what new mothers need isn’t intensive rehab, but a brief period (one or two days) of observation, some education about how to feed and care for their baby, and then a timely discharge home, with a single postpartum visit a few weeks later. Indeed, this laissez-faire approach is the standard of care in many U.S. hospitals.

    But as the U.S. faces a surging maternal-mortality rate, with more than half of maternal deaths occurring after delivery, physicians are now in wide agreement that the standard of care needs to change. Pregnant women in the U.S. are not as young as they once were. Pregnancy and childbirth can present grave dangers—particularly when a woman already has underlying health conditions. A vaginal delivery is an intense physiological event that involves the rapid expansion and then contraction of the musculoskeletal system, along with dramatic shifts in hormones, blood volume, and heart rate. A Cesarean section is a major surgery that involves cutting through layers of skin, fascia, and muscle—and that’s if everything goes perfectly.

    Rebeca Segraves, a Washington State–based doctor of physical therapy specializing in women’s health, told me she was struck early in her career by the realization that women undergoing a C-section did not receive routine postoperative PT. She was used to performing inpatient evaluations for patients recovering from relatively minor illnesses and surgeries, such as pneumonia, gallbladder removal, and prostatectomy. But after a C-section, she says, a PT evaluation “just wasn’t the culture.” She set out to change that.

    For most people, if the phrase postpartum physical therapy calls to mind anything at all, it’s pelvic-floor PT. In the early 2010s, American women living abroad introduced U.S. audiences to the French practice of perineal “reeducation,” a comprehensive exercise regimen prescribed for every postpartum mother and subsidized by the French government, designed to retrain the muscles of the pelvic floor after birth. Since then, U.S. researchers and the popular press have documented the widespread and devastating effects of urinary incontinence, pelvic-organ prolapse, and chronic pelvic pain—issues that can be overlooked or dismissed at the postpartum visit.

    But Segraves is arguing for postpartum PT/OT that goes beyond the pelvic floor. Segraves has developed an approach called “enhanced recovery after delivery” (ERAD), essentially a training program for OB-GYN departments and hospital-based PT/OT staff that encourages an evaluation for every woman after childbirth. ERAD includes an assessment of body mechanics and cardiopulmonary function, gait retraining, infant lifting and lowering techniques, and (in the case of C-section) incision-protection training. Crucially, a therapist also monitors the woman’s bodily responses—such as pain and vital signs—while she practices these simple home activities in the hospital.

    Segraves believes that these interventions could be lifesaving. Warning signs of the major postpartum killers—including preeclampsia, stroke, hemorrhage, and infection—sometimes manifest right away, but in many cases they don’t appear until a woman returns home, where they may go unrecognized. The more attention paid to new mothers in the hospital—particularly while they’re moving around, Segraves argues—the more likely providers are to catch these warning signs.

    As an example, Segraves told me about a patient she met a few years ago who had suffered a third-degree perineal laceration (a particularly severe birth injury) during a vaginal delivery. At the time, Segraves was primarily focused on providing physical therapy after C-sections, but her team advocated for this woman to receive a PT evaluation prior to discharge. When the woman tried to stand and walk, her blood pressure shot to a dangerously high level. Ultimately, the patient was transferred to the ICU and diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

    Anecdotes like these make a powerful case for universal PT/OT for new mothers. But as yet, there’s no proof that it could affect postpartum outcomes on a large scale. To get this kind of evidence, Segraves will need a clinical trial. So far, she told me, she’s gotten a grant to study physicians’ and therapists’ attitudes toward routine postpartum PT/OT.

    Her research is in the early stages, but my conversations with maternal-care specialists suggest that attitudes are mixed. Olga Ramm, a urogynecologist in the San Francisco Bay Area, told me she worries that PT/OT for all pregnant women could be hard to implement universally, “because so much of it really depends on that interpersonal relationship and connection between the patient and the therapist.” Funding is an issue too: Physical and occupational therapists are licensed professionals whose services aren’t cheap, and many hospitals are already strapped for cash and staff. Adding a PT/OT evaluation for every hospitalized patient “seems like a fairly expensive way” to bolster postpartum services, Ramm said. Willats, the nurse-midwife, agreed. “The way we educate people should change,” she said. “We don’t necessarily need a different group of people to do that education.”

    Then again, physical and occupational therapists may be uniquely positioned to do this work. Unlike doctors, who are usually trained to think about patients as sick or healthy, PTs and OTs are interested in how a person’s body serves her in her daily life—what Segraves calls “roles and routines.” This means seeing a new mother as someone who is about to return home in a changed body, who will need to lift, rock, and soothe a newborn; perform heavy chores such as cleaning and laundry; and perhaps breastfeed that newborn, whose kicking feet land right on a fresh C-section scar. PT/OT is about helping her adapt to all of these changes with intention and care.

    Doctors and patients tend to think of physical therapy as primarily a set of rehab exercises that help a patient recover from an injury. But another way to view PT and OT is as an opportunity, inside the overwhelming world of the hospital, for a skilled professional to see and treat the patient as a whole person. Segraves told me the story of a young woman with a high-risk pregnancy and a prolonged hospital stay, during which baby gifts from friends and family piled up around the room. After several agonizing weeks, she delivered a stillbirth by C-section. A few days later, Segraves watched as an occupational therapist sat by the patient’s side, helping her fold all of those tiny newborn clothes, tucking them neatly back into gift bags for her to take home. At that moment, Segraves said with a touch of awe in her voice, the young woman was “more functional than any of us had seen her up to that point.”

    When I consider this story, I can’t help but recall the therapists strolling the hallways of my residency hospital, asking my patients questions I’d never bothered to address—about their home, their life, their “roles and routines.” Really, the questions they were asking were much deeper—and exactly the ones that are central to new motherhood: How will you manage in this new body, this new life? Who will you be?

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    Christine Henneberg

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  • Why Does Chronic Pain Hurt So Much?

    Why Does Chronic Pain Hurt So Much?

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    You never forget the first time a doctor gives up: when they tell you that they don’t know what to do—they have no further tests to run, no treatments to offer—and that you’re on your own. It happened to me at the age of 27, and it happens to many others with chronic pain.

    I don’t remember what film I’d gone to see, but I know I was at The Oaks Theater, an old arts cinema on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, when pain stabbed me in the side. This was followed by an urgent need to urinate; after bolting to the bathroom, I felt better, but a band of tension ran through my groin. As the hours went by, the pain resolved into a need to pee again, which woke me up at 1 or 2 a.m. I went to the bathroom—but, as if I was in some bad dream, urinating made no difference. The band of sensation remained, insusceptible to feedback from my body. I spent a night of hallucinatory sleeplessness sprawled on the bathroom floor, peeing from time to time in a vain attempt to snooze the somatic alarm.

    My primary-care doctor guessed that I had a urinary-tract infection. But the test came back negative—as did more elaborate tests, including a cystoscopy in which an apparently teenage urologist inserted an old-fashioned cystoscope through my urethra in agonizing increments, like a telescopic radio antenna. It certainly felt like something was wrong, but the doctor found no visible lesion or infection.

    What followed were years of fruitless consultations, the last of which produced a label, chronic pelvic pain—which means what it sounds like and explains very little—and a discouraging prognosis. The condition is not well understood, and there is no reliable treatment. I live with the hum of pain as background noise, flare-ups decimating sleep from time to time.

    That pain is bad for you may seem too obvious to warrant scrutiny. But as a philosopher, I find myself asking why it is so bad—especially in a case like mine, where the pain I feel from day to day is not debilitating. To my relief, I am able to function pretty well; sleep deprivation is the worst of it. What more is there to say about the harm of being in pain?

    Virginia Woolf may have invented the commonplace that language struggles to communicate pain. “English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear,” she wrote, “has no words for the shiver and the headache.” Woolf’s maxim was developed by the literary and cultural critic Elaine Scarry in The Body in Pain, a book that has become a classic. “Physical pain—unlike any other state of consciousness—has no referential content,” she wrote. “It is not of or for anything. It is precisely because it takes no object that it, more than any other phenomenon, resists objectification in language.”

    But as someone who has lived with pain for 19 years, I think Woolf and Scarry are wrong. Physical pain has “referential content”: It represents a part of the body as being damaged or imperiled even when, as in my case, it isn’t really. Pain can be deceptive. And we have many words for it: Pulsing, burning, and contracting are all good words for mine.

    That pain represents the body in distress, bringing it into focus, helps us better understand why it is bad. Pain disrupts what the philosopher and physician Drew Leder calls the “transparency” of the healthy body. We don’t normally attend to the bodies itself; instead, we interact with the world “through” it, as if it was a transparent medium. Being in pain blurs the corporeal glass. That’s why pain is not just bad in itself: It impedes one’s access to anything good.

    This accounts for one of pain’s illusions. Sometimes, I think I want nothing more than to be pain free—but as soon as pain is gone, the body recedes into the background, unappreciated. The joy of being free of pain is like a picture that vanishes when you try to look at it, like turning on the lights to see the dark.

    Philosophy illuminates another side of pain—in a way that has practical upshots. This has to do with understanding persistent pain as more than just a sequence of atomized sensations. The temporality of pain transforms its character.

    Although I am not always in notable pain, I’m never aware of pain’s onset or relief. By the time I realize it has vanished from the radar of attention, it has been quiet for a while. When the pain is unignorable, it seems like it’s been there forever and will never go away. I can’t project into a future free of pain: I will never be physically at ease. Leder, who also suffers from chronic pain, traces its effects on memory and anticipation: “With chronic suffering a painless past is all but forgotten. While knowing intellectually that we were once not in pain we have lost the bodily memory of how this felt. Similarly, a painless future may be unimaginable.”

    We can draw two lessons from this. The first is that we have to focus on the present, not on what is coming in the future: If you can treat pain as a series of self-contained episodes, you can diminish its power. I try to live by what I call the “Kimmy Schmidt rule,” after the sitcom heroine who endured 15 years in an underground bunker with the mantra “You can stand anything for 10 seconds.” My units of time are longer, but I do my imperfect best not to project beyond them. You can have a good day while experiencing pelvic pain. And life is just one day after another.

    The second lesson is that there’s less to what philosophers call “the separateness of persons” than might appear. Moral philosophers have argued that concern for others does not simply aggregate their harms. If you have to choose between agony for one person or mild headaches for many others, you should choose the headaches, no matter the number. The relief of minor pain for many cannot offset the agony of one, because the pains afflict distinct and separate people. They don’t add up.

    Do trade-offs like this make sense within a single life? Philosophers often say they do, but I’ve come to believe that’s wrong. If what I was experiencing was just a sequence of atomized pains, without effects on memory or anticipation, I don’t think it would make sense to trade them for short-lived agony—a three-hour surgery performed without anesthetic, say—any more than it would make sense to trade a million mild headaches for the agony of one person. If I would choose to undergo that surgery, it would be because of the temporal effects of chronic pain, the shadow it casts over past and future.

    A lot has been made of pain’s unshareability, how it divides us from one another. In fact, pain is no more shareable over time. My mother-in-law once asked, rhetorically, “Why can one man not piss for another man?” But you can’t piss for your past or future self either. And as we bridge the gulf between now and then to sympathize with ourselves at other times, we sympathize too with the suffering of others. Self-compassion is not the same as compassion for other people, but they are not as different as they seem. There is solace in solidarity, in sharing the experience of chronic pain, in compassion’s power to breach the boundaries that separate us from other people, and ourselves.

    This article has been excerpted from Kieran Setiya’s new book, Life Is Hard: How Philosophy Can Help Us Find Our Way.

    When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

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    Kieran Setiya

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