I was flat on my back under the bathroom sink, staring into the dusty dark with a wrench in one hand and a body already filing objections. The cabinet floor pressed into my shoulders; my lower back had no interest in negotiating, and every shift of a hip or bend of a knee required planning.
Chronic pain can turn an ordinary movement into a deliberate calculation.
I was down there because the water in the faucet had slowed to a trickle, and I was determined to find out why.
Seven months earlier, I had written about federal showerhead rules and the absurdity of Washington deciding how much water should come out of something people bought for their own homes.
Read More: Big Government Steps Out of the Shower Stall
A reader using the screen name anon-nmmt left a comment I never forgot. He said the restrictor could simply be removed or drilled out, then credited "old American ingenuity" and a healthy contempt for government telling him what he could do.
I know the solution is probably painfully obvious to many of you. For me, mechanical work is less a skill than a public warning.
I appreciate every repair with the confidence of a man who has absolutely no business holding tools. Within minutes, I've usually removed three parts, misplaced two screws, invented a new profanity, and created a second problem that didn't exist when I started.
My mechanical aptitude ranks somewhere below a chimp using a blade of grass to pull termites from a mound; the chimp understands leverage, recognizes success, and knows when to stop.
Meanwhile, I am standing in the bathroom holding a plastic washer like Indiana Jones examining an ancient relic, wondering whether it controls the water flow or keeps the house from exploding.
I've written several hundred columns since then and read more comments than I could possibly count. Somehow his comment stayed with me.
So I took the faucet apart; I couldn't find a blockage or some mystery chunk of debris hiding inside. Then I found the reducer, remembered anon-nmmt, removed it, and turned the water back on.
Voila! Full flow again.
There's something wonderfully satisfying about a mechanical problem surrendering. Find the bad part, remove it, tighten everything back down, and enjoy the result. I had my sink back, and for a few seconds, everything worked exactly as intended.
Then came the harder repair: getting me out from under it.
My back didn't click back into place; my hips offered no removable restrictor; I shifted, braced, pushed, stopped, adjusted, and eventually worked myself upright.
The faucet had surrendered to a wrench, but my body had its own terms.
People living with chronic pain know the larger version of that struggle. Pain is only part of the burden; the system built around treating it can become another source of exhaustion.
For patients taking Schedule II pain medication such as oxycodone, there isn't even a conventional refill under federal law. Each prescription requires another prescription.
So the cycle starts again: contact the doctor's office, make the request, wait for approval, hope the pharmacy has the medication, and deal with whatever insurance requirement may come next.
There's an emotional cost hidden inside that routine. Month after month, you can feel as though you're asking permission to hurt less. You request, explain, remind, wait, and sometimes feel reduced to groveling for medication that may not erase the pain anyway.
Maybe it only makes the day survivable.
Federal health officials themselves recognize what can happen when pain care becomes too rigid. CDC guidance calls for individualized care and warns against policies that can produce harmful consequences for patients.
FDA guidance also warns against abruptly stopping or rapidly reducing opioids in physically dependent patients because uncontrolled pain and other serious harms can follow.
I live with a pretty good amount of pain, and some days are rough. I also know there are a great many people who have it far worse than I do. Some live with greater pain, less mobility, fewer treatment options, and a relentless fight simply to get through another day.
Maybe the sink gave me something worth keeping; fix what can be fixed, adapt to what must be done, and listen when somebody offers a piece of hard-earned wisdom.
Sometimes, the victory is getting the water flowing again.
Sometimes, it's getting yourself off the floor.
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