Seeing my osteopath for visceral massage has been one of the most validating experiences I’ve had in my medical journey. She wasn’t just there to treat me—she was willing to listen, to truly see me, to be a guide in the chaos of navigating chronic pain.
One day, I told her something my physiatrist had said: that things could be so much worse. I was trying to take it as a positive, trying to remind myself to be grateful, but something about it didn’t sit right. She paused, then gently said, "Keana, just because you’re further along than others doesn’t mean you aren’t deserving of care and treatment. Don’t count yourself out. You are just as deserving. You are worthy." And just like that, the floodgate of tears opened. I have fought so hard. I have endured excruciating procedures, picked myself up over and over again, and refused to accept that this is as good as it gets. I have pushed forward, even when I was told there was nothing more to try. And yet, because I am "better than others," I find myself being pushed aside—left to fend for myself when what I really need is for my medical team to walk with me to the finish line.
At another appointment, I could see the frustration on my osteopath’s face. She finally admitted, “I wish I felt like I was able to help your pain, but I don’t feel like I am. I wish I was like the Magic School Bus and could go right into your pelvis and figure out why it’s jammed up in there and what’s going on.” My jammed-up pelvis has been a mystery to every practitioner I’ve seen. No one can figure out what’s causing it. No one knows how to fix it. And that has been one of the most frustrating pieces of this entire journey. But even though she couldn’t physically solve the problem, she still showed up for me. She offered to talk to my doctors, to help organize my care, to put a plan together. She cared. And that meant more than words can express.
During this time, I was also going through rounds of trigger point injections with my physiatrist. The goal is to get the brain to reset—to convince it that the pain isn’t necessary anymore, that the muscles can finally let go. It sounds like a good idea in theory. But in reality? It’s brutal.
My muscles are so tight that every injection feels like a knife driving into me. And it’s not just one poke—the needle is fanned out, over and over, injecting medication deep into the tissue. I scream. I cry. Every single time. It’s excruciating. But it helps.
Then comes the worst part: walking out of the office. I pass the front desk ladies, other patients in the waiting room, all of them giving me that look of pity that also says, “We heard you.” The pity. The embarrassment. It’s my least favorite day.
By the time I make it to the elevator, the medication starts to hit. I feel disoriented, drugged. I have a hard time walking straight. And then, out of nowhere, the tears come—deep, uncontrollable sobs. Maybe it’s the pain. Maybe it’s trauma being released. Maybe it’s both. Either way, I have no choice but to let it happen.
And just when I think I’ve made it through, another layer unfolds. The muscles that were injected start to relax, but new ones take their place, tightening and screaming for attention. The cycle never seems to end.
Through all of this, I keep coming back to what my osteopath told me:
I am worthy of care.I am deserving of treatment.
Even when the system tries to convince me otherwise.
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