Chronic pain

Not all pain is the same


When I started working in the field of persistent pain, many of the approaches used were based on the idea that every pain was the same. Oh yes, of course we had neuropathic pain and inflammatory pain, but our treatments tended to approach each person as if they were pretty similar. We later refined that approach and started to look at people in groups. In the service I worked in, we used the Westhaven-Yale Multidimensional Pain Inventory which generates three main psychologically-based profiles – and for a long time this was a very useful way of establishing who needed the three-week residential programme, and who would do well with a briefer outpatient programme.

Well things change over time, and we’ve become more aware of what Clifford Woolf describes as a “mechanism-based” classification approach (Woolf, 2004). In this approach, clinicians try to establish the dominant mechanistic group in which a person’s pain might be classified, then suit the treatment to that mechanism. This means clinicians diagnose inflammatory pain, neuropathic pain, and nociplastic pain – and use what looks like the best combination of medications to suit the mechanisms. For example, for neuropathic pain it’s more likely people will be given gabapentin/pregabalin and a tricyclic antidepressant in combination than an opioid.

There’s a problem, though – in fact, TWO problems I can see.

Methods for identifying pain mechanistic groups

The first problem is that we don’t have wonderful methods for establishing the main mechanistic groups.

In fact, in a recent very large and thorough review of methods used to discriminate between each category, the authors found that “few methods have been validated for discrimination between pain mechanism categories”, and although there was “general convergence” between methods, there was also “some disagreement” (not that this is unfamiliar to anyone who reads research!) Shraim, Masse-Alarie, & Hodges, 2021).

What was interesting, albeit not too unexpected, was the overlap of findings between categories because people present with mixed types of pain; and that many of the studies attempted to only discriminate between two of the groups, rather than more. Having said this, the authors identified five groups of method used to help clinicians and researchers distinguish between pain mechanisms: clinical examination; quantitative sensory testing; imaging; diagnostic and laboratory tests; and questionnaires asking participants to describe their experiences.

Now I know that research studies aim to be a little more rigorous than clinical practice, but that should sound an alarm when we begin looking at what we need to do in clinical practice. “Subjective” pain examination included aggravating and easing factors, pain location and pain characteristics (can anyone tell me when pain is NOT subjective?). It also included psychological factors (although my radar went off at this – more of this later!). Physical examination (is this supposed to be ‘objective’ pain examination?) included general clinical assessment, general neurological testing, nerve provocation testing and neurodynamics, clinical bedside somatosensory function testing, movement and functional testing. Quantitative sensory testing had no greater degree of sensitive, specificity and reliability than physical examination and “subjective” history, and laboratory testing was pretty poor despite superficially looking more “accurate.” A similar state exists for questionnaires – oh lordy!

So these authors found 200 methods that could be used to determine which pain fits into a specific box, but overall the results are pretty underwhelming for clinicians wanting a direction for their approach. It’s not helped that the current “gold standard” used is – wait for it – clinician-based diagnosis.

Where are we left? Well, I think we’re not that far away from where we were in the 1990’s and early 2000s. We really don’t have a clear way to distinguish between the various mechanisms, and many people likely present with pain that includes more than mechanism. However – these authors provide a table summarising the commonly used, and possibly most likely approaches to diagnose pain mechanisms, and this is useful for those of us who want the “best guess” for now.

Problem two

At the beginning of this piece, I said there were two problems with using mechanistic descriptors. You can see the problems with reliability, specificity and so on – and the lack of agreement in the research and likely “mixed” presentations we will see in clinic – from my comments above (do read the whole article, though, it’s well worth it).

The second problem is that these descriptors, even when accurate and reliable, don’t tell us anything about the person experiencing pain. Unless, and until we have effective treatments for each of these mechanisms, we are inevitably running experiments to see what might work for this person in front of us. And this means we find less utility in diagnosis than we would if we drew on a case formulation approach.

What’s the difference? Diagnosis allows us to group “like with like” – on the basis of similar underlying mechanisms. We can then treat those mechanisms, and voila! the person recovers! It works well with fractures, with infectious diseases, and even with diabetes. It doesn’t work as well when we don’t have treatments we can use on the mechanisms. For example, although we can diagnose many neurological disorders, for so many of them we have very poor treatments. This means people live with their disease – and this is where a diagnosis falls down. It does not tell us HOW this person will experience their disease. Diagnosis doesn’t explain illness, disability, functional status, or participation.

And, because all of us are unique, this means that a one-size-fits-all approach to persistent pain (or even an algorithm, subtype, or subgroup) isn’t likely to offer clinicians or the person with pain a useful path towards well-being.

You’ll remember I said my radar went off with the psychological assessments included in the methods used to identify a pain mechanism. My reason is this: pain is a stressor. Even a paper-cut captures my attention (albeit just a little until I use a hand sanitiser!), my heart rate goes up a bit, I’m alerted to the experience and want to get away from it. Now imagine if that pain continued. Maybe variably, maybe constantly, maybe intermittently. And imagine if I couldn’t get a good understanding of what’s going on. And perhaps I was being questioned by my clinicians – and maybe even stigmatised. “What do you mean, you have pain we can’t diagnose, we can’t image, we can’t treat?” I’m guessing by now, perhaps some months after my pain started, I’d be feeling a bit irritated, perhaps a bit low in mood, my sleep might not be great, I might find it hard to do what matters to me because I’m not sure if I’m doing myself some harm.

What we don’t know in many studies of pain “predictors” is whether they are cause or effect. There is undoubtedly an association between various measures of pain-related anxiety, avoidance, low mood, thinking the worst. What we do not know is whether this was present before the pain came on – or whether it came afterwards.

So, to my mind, using psychological factors as part of diagnosis risks labelling people and what are probably normal responses to abnormal experiences. Let’s not do that.

Where am I left after reading this paper? I’m glad someone set about doing this review. I think it offers a good summary of the state of play, and identifies some of the current problems with a mechanistic approach. We need to get consensus on definitions, we need far better methods, we need to stop using the word “subjective pain examination” (because ALL pain is subjective), and we need to leave psychological factors out of diagnosis until we can clearly identify which came first.

Shraim, M. A., Masse-Alarie, H., & Hodges, P. W. (2021, Apr 1). Methods to discriminate between mechanism-based categories of pain experienced in the musculoskeletal system: a systematic review. Pain, 162(4), 1007-1037. https://doi.org/10.1097/j.pain.0000000000002113

Woolf CJ. Pain: moving from symptom control toward mechanism-specific pharmacologic management. Ann Intern Med 2004;140:441–51.

What happens to pain over 21 years?


No! I was not born then… I’m much older than that. No, in this longitudinal cohort study, participants recruited from the general public in Sweden were surveyed five times: at inception in 1995, again in 1998, 2003, 2007 and 2016. The article I’m reporting on included all respondents who had completed information on at least 3 of the 5 time points, a total of 1858 people! That’s a decent-sized study.

Longitudinal studies are really hard to do but offer us so much information about what happens over time to a group of people and it’s something we need to do more often. The problems with longitudinal studies are that people drop out, get lost to the researchers, they cost a lot to run, and research changes over time so the research questions may change, the measurement instruments may change, and it’s difficult to predict the variables that might be relevant at the beginning of the study. So, hats off to Aili, Campbell, Michaleff, Strauss, Jordan, Bremander et al (2021) who carried out this study!

Like many of these longitudinal studies, the authors developed an analysis in which groups of people who share similar characteristics in their persistent pain were identified. By following these groups over time, researchers are able to identify who changes, who doesn’t, and to identify some of the predictive factors that might put a person in the “at risk” group for developing increasingly poor outcomes. The “so what” factor for this type of study is that by identifying “at risk” people early on in their trajectory with pain, it may be possible to develop interventions that could help reduce this risk and that has to be both a human and economic gain for a community. In this instance, in order to interpret the findings, it’s important to remember that Sweden and other countries in the world don’t all look alike, have different healthcare systems, different genetic factors, and different social structures that can influence the process. So bear that in mind as I proceed.

The question asked about pain was this: “have you experienced pain lasting more than 3 months during the last 12 months?” Participants were then asked to indicate the location of the pain using a manikin with 18 predefined bodily regions in the musculoskeletal system; head and abdomen were not included (that latter one is a bit of a problem for me, tbh – given abdominal pain is a common experience for many women…). Participants were then identified as either having no chronic pain, or chronic widespread pain or chronic regional pain.

Sleep, health status, socio-economic status, treatment-seeking (for pain), lifestyle factors (alcohol, tobacco use), immigrant status and social support were also analysed.

Now for the statistics! Latent class growth analysis was used to identify common patterns or trajectories of pain over the time of the study. This analysis clusters participants according to their pain status over time, with each cluster representing a certain pattern of pain over time – participants were placed in a group where they had the highest probability of belonging based on their individual pattern of pain over time.

Results

At the beginning of the study, nearly 13% of participants reported chronic widespread pain, with just over a quarter (25.3%) reporting chronic regional pain. Using the analysis and various confirmatory statistical processes, the authors identified a 4-cluster model, and a 5-cluster model. Both models included a group that had NO ongoing pain at all, as well as a group with ongoing widespread pain. The preferred model was the 4-cluster model, as this had four different but clinically meaningful patterns – persistent no pain; persistent chronic widespread pain; those moving from chronic regional pain to chronic widespread pain, and a change trajectory: eg no chronic pain to chronic regional pain or chronic widespread pain. The cluster identified as including those who typically migrated from NCP to CRP or CWP was the smallest (5% of the sample), and the least reliably detected.

The trajectories are really interesting: (1) 47% of people never reported persistent pain at all over the 21 years. 5% pf people reporting no pain initially, but then moved to chronic regional pain or chronic widespread pain over time. (2) 22% of people reported chronic pain initially, or moved from chronic pain to no pain over time – the authors argue that the cluster of people may have chronic regional pain initially and migrate between chronic regional pain and no pain over time. (3) 10% of the group moved from chronic regional pain to chronic widespread pain and this grew more likely over time. (4) The final group were a small group (6%) of people who continued to report chronic widespread pain over the whole 21 years

The predictors for those in group (3) were being female, seeking care for pain over the preceding 12 months, lack of social support, poor physical function, poor vitality, and poor mental health. Being a manual worker nearly made the cut, and in an age-adjusted analysis, did for the group moving to widespread pain. Age (middle-age!), poor sleep, smoking and being an immigrant also tended towards having a poorer prognosis.

What on earth does this mean?

Well, one exciting thing is that a large group of people never experience persistent pain. This might imply that these people are generally more healthy, and it can also help explain why some people living with pain feel so alienated from the rest of their community. If most people around you don’t develop pain, then they most likely don’t understand what it might be like to live with pain 24/7.

When we look at the factors that predicted moving from no pain to chronic pain, there were several factors that can be modified to reduce the risk: sleep problems, poor physical and mental health, poor vitality, seeking treatment, and limited social support. Perhaps by addressing these factors, some people might find their move towards greater pain could be reversed, or at least halted. My question is, however, whether treatment seeking might reflect the fact the person wasn’t feel great either physically or mentally, and for some people, being unwell might mean withdrawing from social interaction, so it’s not entirely simple to interpret.

The authors point out that “The highest risk of belonging to the group developing CRP or CWP is seen in age groups below 50 years. Previously published figures from baseline data in this study show a prevalence of over 20% of chronic pain already among 20 to 29 year olds. The overall image is that long-term patterns of pain are already becoming established by the time adulthood is reached, and rising age in adulthood increases the likelihood of stable patterns over time.” [italics mine] They also point out that women who develop pain have a greater risk for developing long-term and increasingly widespread pain. Other important factors for this group were those who were older, had poor sleep, worked in a manual job, drank less alcohol, were immigrants, had less education, generally poor health, more care seeking and low social support.

To me, this study shows the impact of living on the fringes of our society – the women (in particular) who work manual jobs like cleaning, who left school early, perhaps moved to a new country and have few friends, and were probably quite stressed – leading to poor sleep, and poorer health, with consequent treatment seeking. What are we doing to help these women? Here in New Zealand, we can probably add Māori, Pasifika, refugees, and people who don’t speak English terribly well. How well are our current pain management services working for these people?

Aili, K., Campbell, P., Michaleff, Z. A., Strauss, V. Y., Jordan, K. P., Bremander, A., Croft, P., & Bergman, S. (2021, May 1). Long-term trajectories of chronic musculoskeletal pain: a 21-year prospective cohort latent class analysis. Pain, 162(5), 1511-1520. https://doi.org/10.1097/j.pain.0000000000002137

Family and friends matter


I’m going back to my series on behavioural approaches to pain management (it’s a slow process!). For the first two go here and here. Now I want to talk about the impact of family and friends on people living with pain.

The people we live with are so influential on what we do and believe about pain. It’s our parents who first taught us the relationship between the word “pain” and the experience we know as pain. It’s our parents and family who responded when we cried, who kissed it better (or not), who told us to “harden up” (or not), who took us to the doctor (or not), who showed us, through their own behaviour, how to “do pain.”

There’s a good deal of research investigating the impact of friends and family on pain behaviour (remember the distinction I make between pain-the-experience and pain behaviour or what we do when we’re sore? click). For instance, a systematic review by Snippen, de Vries, van der Burg-Vermeulen, Hagedoorn and Brouwer (2019) looked at people with chronic diseases, and the attitudes and beliefs of significant others. They found that “positive and encouraging attitudes regarding work participation, encouragement and motivating behaviour and open communication with patients” were facilitators for work participation while “positive attitudes towards sickness absence and advise, encouragement or pressure to refrain from work” were barriers to returning to work.

In another study, Burns, Post, Smith, Porter and colleagues (2019) observed spouse dyads behaviour after arguing then the person with pain undergoing a pain induction task. Spouses that believed that the patient’s pain was a mystery were significantly more likely to be perceived by the patient as giving critical/invalidating responses toward the patient during the discussion; while spouse perceptions that the patient’s pain was a mystery were related to internal and negative attributions spouses made while observing patients display pain behaviors during the structured pain behavior task (p. 1176).

In another study, this one a daily diary study with people living with osteoarthritis in their knee, found that on days when the person with pain reported more thinking the worst, their spouses were more unhappy during the day. And on the days when the partner was more irritated with the person living with pain, that person reported more thinking the worst the next morning. The link? The people with pain who were thinking the worst were also more grumpy through the day, and this was rubbing off on their partner. (Martier, Zhaoyang, Marini, Nah & Darnell, 2019).

Makes sense, doesn’t it? That when we see our loved one demonstrate that they’re sore, and they’re grumpy – and if we’re not sure they’re for real – we might be less supportive as partners than if we think their pain is for real. And over time the pattern of being sympathetic might wear thin – in fact, Chris Main (psychologist) describes a pattern of initial solicitous behaviour (the “there, there dear, I’ll fetch you a cup of tea”), then resentment (“surely you’ve recovered now?”), then anger and punitive behaviour (ignoring the person, getting irritated with them), but then feeling guilty about this (“OMG I know, it’s not your fault and I’ve been so mean”), returning to being solicitous – until the next time the partner feels fed up.

What does this mean for a behavioural approach?

Well, it’s not surprising that if one of the partners thinks the other “should be well now”, they’re likely to be unsympathetic as we begin changing the person’s behaviour. Often we’re attempting to help someone be consistent with their daily activities, and this can often begin by reducing how much should be attempted so the person can “do no more on a good day, and do no less on a bad day.”

And if the partner is really worried about the person with pain, and afraid that doing more is going to increase pain and prolong disability, it’s also not surprising that the partner is likely to be worried about us asking the person to do things differently (especially exercise!).

And don’t forget that during this time, both partners are probably trying to keep some semblance of normal going. They still have the usual household tasks to get done, to pay the bills, to get the kids to and from school, to keep in touch with extended family and friends and so on.

It’s stressful. And we add to the burden when we ask the person to do something different, whether this be doing exercises, using a mindfulness or relaxation technique, perhaps go to various appointments all around town…and if we don’t include the impact of what we expect on the partner, we’re possibly not going to have “the team” on board with the rehabilitation programme.

The very best option is to ask the person’s partner to come in to at least one of our treatment sessions, so we can spend some time talking about what we’re asking the person with pain to do, and getting an indication from the partner about their willingness to follow the programme. The next best option is to write the programme down, and include “things family can do to help” – listing the kinds of things family and friends can do (and what they should avoid doing).

You see, people we see for help never live in a vacuum. They always have a context of friends, family, home, responsibilities, expectations from them, expectations for the work we do. Forgetting about this and expecting a good result fails to recognise the embedded nature of life. Contextual factors are important, no person is an island.

Burns, J. W., Post, K. M., Smith, D. A., Porter, L. S., Buvanendran, A., Fras, A. M., & Keefe, F. J. (2019). Spouse and patient beliefs and perceptions about chronic pain: effects on couple interactions and patient pain behavior. The Journal of Pain, 20(10), 1176-1186.

Martire, L. M., Zhaoyang, R., Marini, C. M., Nah, S., & Darnall, B. D. (2019). Daily and bidirectional linkages between pain catastrophizing and spouse responses. Pain, 160(12), 2841.

Snippen, N. C., de Vries, H. J., van der Burg-Vermeulen, S. J., Hagedoorn, M., & Brouwer, S. (2019). Influence of significant others on work participation of individuals with chronic diseases: a systematic review. BMJ Open, 9(1), e021742. doi: 10.1136/bmjopen-2018-021742

Self-care


No, not the Instagram “self-care” of floofy slippers and a glass of wine, or an excuse to indulge in chocolate. No, I’m talking about the gritty self-care that all of us humans need to do, only some of us need to it more regularly or we’ll experience Consequences.

Self-care for people living with pain is no luxury, and it does (occasionally) mean walking away from something enjoyable, setting boundaries on demands for time and energy, AND it means many other things too.

I’ll talk about my own self-care needs because I can’t talk authentically about anyone else. Most of you will know I live with fibromyalgia, and that I’m pretty happy with my lifestyle and dealing with pain. Mostly it’s just a nuisance that I live alongside, and make room for. Sometimes it’s a PITA, and over the last year it’s been more of that and less of the “just a nuisance”.

My fibromyalgia involves widespread body pain (currently neck/shoulder but randomly goes to other places – maybe for a holiday? Who would know!). I also experience fatigue. In fact, the pain is nothing to bother me because I know it’s not a sign I’ve harmed myself – it’s the fatigue that is a killer. Probably the most difficult thing to deal with.

So when I went to a conference, and had a few late nights it didn’t surprise me to feel exhausted. I’m lucky in that I can take a couple of days off for some downtime, and I slept and now I’m pretty much back to normal. Except that it’s a short week with Easter coming up, and I have a whole day out because of a procedure – and I’m teaching Thursday night while also having some other deadlines coming up.

Lurching from frantically catching up to crashing is called “boom and bust” in our persistent pain language. According to conventional pain management wisdom (based on books like Manage Your Pain by Prof Michael Nicholas) pacing is The Way to Go. And there’s some merit in the idea of being consistent in what to expect from yourself, building up from a baseline to what works for you in your life context, to reduce the number of times you have to apologise for not being able to do something because you’ve either flared or you’re fatigued.

The problem with pacing is that we still have little agreement on what we mean by the word (is it gradually increasing activity levels? is it stopping before we flare up? is it planning each moment of the day, breaking each task into 10 – 20 minutes with a break in between? is it about using time instead of pain/fatigue as the guide for what you do?). There’s even less evidence to support pacing as a strategy – few randomised trials of pacing and studies have shown associations between pacing and avoidance. Yet it remains one of the more popular and widely-endorsed strategies for living well with persistent pain.

Coming back to self-care, one of the issues for me is to understand how I get into the situation where my fatigue and pain begins to interfere with my plans. Is it my planning that’s awry? Should I say no more often? Should I ask for help more often? Am I bad for pushing myself? Am I over-reaching myself, spreading myself too thin?

And even as I ask these questions of myself, I feel my mind judging me. After all, I should know better! I’ve been living with pain most of my life. I teach people about pain. I’ve worked clinically. Seriously I ought not to do this to myself. I should be perfect!!

Well, as anyone who knows me is perfectly aware: I am not perfect. And I mess up. I did last week when I completely forgot an appointment with someone because my mind was fried.

Here’s the thing though. This amount of self-analysis, of questioning, of planning, of organising around something that I never asked for, is what anyone with persistent pain goes through. And the often-glib “go exercise” or “just pace” or “let’s ignore pain and pretend it’s not a thing” often fails to touch the constant demands that living with a chronic/ongoing health problem poses. The negative and critical mind is prone to sniping at the “who” I am, while onlookers, clinicians in particular, might not even be aware of just how brutal and energy-sapping this process is. Every. Single. Day.

I do not have a glib answer to how best to live well with pain, and as you can tell I’m still learning even 35 years down the track! I do know I’m determined, and that drawing on values and being flexible about how I do what matters in my life has meant I’ve stayed working (even in a demanding job), kept on playing (creative pursuits are like oil on dry skin), learned to keep my eyes on the prize and not sweat the small stuff…

This post is a plea to health professionals working with people who are in the early stages of living with persisting pain: don’t add things to a person’s life without thinking about the constant juggle the person will need to do often for the rest of their life. Don’t make up another list of exercises, or make suggestions about another technique to add in to their already busy daily life without asking yourself “Could I do this every day? In the presence of ongoing pain?” Ask yourself, too, whether you’re implying that this person is “doing it wrong.” Think hard about all the things each person needs and wants to do in their life – if you’re going to suggest adding yet another thing into their day, consider what this person might need to abandon to fit it in, think about when and where and how this person can do what you’re suggesting.

When we’re clinicians, we can be prone to suggesting that people with pain “aren’t motivated.” I reject this – motivation isn’t a trait, or a quantity we’re given or not given. Motivation is about importance, and confidence. And for so many people with pain, confidence is very very low. Saying no to things requires confidence. And sometimes saying no is the hardest thing.

Self-care. It’s a life-long commitment to being vigilant about the choices I make every day, because the consequences of not caring for myself can be tough to swallow. And yet it’s also OK to mess up and to be with that flare or fatigue, and remember what matters in life.

Modifying pain behaviour (2)


Two concepts that receive limited attention in the allied health literature are nomothetic and idiographic approaches. I’m discussing these concepts here because when we’re considering pain behaviour, I think we can focus much more on “generic” (nomothetic) concepts than we do idiographic ones – and yet we say we’re about the unique person in front of us.

Firstly, this site offers a good summary of the difference between nomothetic and idiographic – click

Essentially, nomothetic approaches focus on underlying generalities, perhaps traits, and are a solid part of the science of measurement in psychology. Given that much of our allied health measurement practice is based on psychological theories (such as using aggregated or grouped data to search for differences in means between two groups), it’s not surprising that we’ve tended to reach for a self-report measure when we want to understand what a person thinks and does when they’re sore. Think of the Oxford Knee Score, or the Oswestry Disability Index, for examples!

Here’s an item from the Oswestry Disability Index (Fairbank, Couper, Davies et al, 1980)

Section 5 – Sitting
I can sit in any chair as long as I like.
I can sit in my favorite chair as long as I like.
Pain prevents me from sitting for more than 1 hour.
Pain prevents me from sitting for more than ½ hour.
Pain prevents me from sitting for more than 10
minutes.
Pain prevents me from sitting at all.

When a person reads these items, they’re asked to indicate the answer that best fits their experience, but left unanswered are these points: what time of day? what kind of chair? what is the person doing in the chair? who is around that person? why is the person sitting for a long time? what is it about the pain that stops the person from sitting? what do they think is going on?

While the measure itself is based on rigorous methodology, has excellent psychometric properties and so on – it doesn’t investigate important dimensions that we need as clinicians to help this person perhaps alter their sitting tolerance.

Alternative measurement approaches are available: item response theory is one (click) and multi-level modelling is another (click) – but the former still considers latent traits (ie can we identify a general underlying response that underlies all the variability we see in the data), and multi-level modelling also assumes that the respondents still belong to a general population who will demonstrate similarities around the variable in question.

The problem is that people don’t always follow the rules. Here’s an example:

A woman I saw once had low back pain, and was very afraid to bend forward. She was particularly worried about bending down in the shower to wash her lower legs, and when she saw me she avoided putting her handbag on the floor because this would mean she’d need to bend down to pick it up.

To get around this concern, she’d learned to sit on the floor of her shower to wash her lower legs, used pull-on shoes with elastic laces, or court shoes for work, and she’d put socks and pantihose on while sitting on the floor.

At the same time, she was comfortable sitting for around an hour, was able to stand as a customer service person for an eight hour day, and was happy driving – but not happy about reaching into the back of her car (it was a two-door) because it meant she was bending.

For this woman, her score on the Oswestry was below 20% or considered to be “minimal disability” – and yet she was almost turning herself inside out to be able to do what mattered to her.

An idiographic approach to her situations looks a little more deeply at the function of behaviour in context. If we take a look at the amount of spine flexion within her activities of daily living, we can see that sitting on the floor to wash her legs, and to pull shoes and socks on involves just as much movement as if she was bending down. What was different? Well, she was really afraid she’d slip in the shower and land in an undignified heap on the floor, needing to be rescued – while being naked! She said she’d been told that she shouldn’t bend because she had a disc prolapse and she’d seen one of those spine models with the bright red disc bulge and thought this was going to be much worse if she bent over. She was very concerned about appearances as she worked in a customer service role, so developing a way to still get dressed while avoiding bending forward was really important to her – but it took her much longer to do, much more effort to do it, and she remained quite certain that this red jelly would ooze from her disc if she bent forward.

In a behavioural approach to pain management, it’s important to understand the antecedents and consequences of a behaviour, so we can understand what elicits the behaviour, and what consequences occur to maintain it. In this woman’s case, any context where she might need to lean forward – such as making her bed, picking clothes up from the floor, putting shoes and socks on from standing, picking her handbag up, reaching into the back of her car to fetch something – elicited a thought (image) for her of her disc oozing out. Combined with her interpretation of the advice not to bend when she first sought help, her response was one of fear – and one thing we learn very early on as humans is that we should avoid things that generate fear.

The consequences of her avoiding forward flexion were many: her fears weren’t allayed except in the moment, and she remained highly concerned about the disc bulge; she felt relieved in the moment as she avoided doing the movements she thought would harm her. This is negative reinforcement – fear (negative experience) is reduced (withdrawn) because she avoided the movement (relief – I’ve avoided a disaster!). She also avoided doing many things she’d enjoyed – like playing tennis (bending down to pick up a ball? No way!), picking her clothes up from the floor (she had a home helper do this, and do her washing), she’d changed the shoes she wore to avoid having to bend down to tie laces, and she sat on the floor of her shower to avoid having to bend down to wash her legs.

When we started to work on helping her move on with life, it was really important to understand the unique combination of context and function of her strategies for avoiding bending. Just telling her that her discs wouldn’t bulge out wouldn’t alter those powerful images in her mind! We can’t unlearn an association once we’ve learned it. And she’d been practicing this association between an image of disc bulge oozing and bending – and all the activities where we bend, and all the associations she’d made between jelly wobbling (because the disc is basically jelly, right?), and all the other things she knew about jelly – it’s not strong, it can smear over things, it wobbles, it can melt…. My approach was to help her experience doing without the dire consequences, starting from simple and moving to more challenging over time. More on this next week!

As clinicians, our words matter, as do the images and models we have in our clinics. We also must be mindful that the people we try to help will bring their history and the unique associations they’ve made between things they’ve been told, metaphors they’ve heard and the values that matter to them. Respecting all those vitally important and idiosyncratic aspects of being human is integral to a behavioural approach to pain rehabilitation. Let’s not put people into algorithms or groups or boxes, because if we take the time to learn about their uniqueness we can create more powerful – and fun! approaches to helping them live their lives again.

Fairbank J, Couper J, Davies J, et al. The Oswestry low back pain questionnaire.
Physiotherapy 1980;66:271–3.

…the “so what” question and why it matters to take a break from work


At the conclusion of each of the courses I teach at University of Otago, I ask students the “so what” question. So what that we learned about neurobiology? So what that we discussed social constructs and how they shape pain behaviour? So what that we learn that thoughts and beliefs influence our pain experience? What does it all mean when we’re sitting with a person experiencing pain?

This last week I’ve been on a brief trip to the West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand Aotearoa. It is a wild and isolated part of our country. So wild that in parts the annual rainfall is over 6,000mm (see the map below!), and the wind blows so that the trees grow almost horizontally. For two days there was no power (and thus no internet, no cellphone cover!) and the gravel road to our campsite was closed until 7.00pm while the power lines were being replaced… I won’t talk about the sandflies and mosquitoes – the size of helicopters!! Well perhaps I exaggerate…

Taking a break from talking pain brings me to my “so what” question. Why do I spend my time trying to help people, especially clinicians, learn about pain? Why am I so focused on bringing a narrative that says “we can’t reduce or remove all pain” and at the same time “it’s possible to live well with pain”? What is my “so what”?

Stepping back from the crabby discourse I see so often on social media – like whether hands on or hands off is preferable, whether pain is sensation or perception, whether exercise should be this or that – I think my purpose is to remind everyone, and especially clinicians, that when we’re working with someone who has weird pain that hangs around our job is to find out what this person’s main concern is. And to remember that irrespective of how much we help someone change their pain, ultimately, they will go on to live their own life. Not ours. Theirs.

It struck me from time to time as I swatted sandflies (helicopter sized ones, of course), that many of us work within inflexible processes and systems that demand we identify goals after only just meeting a person. It struck me that the people who develop policy and who get involved in establishing processes are not engaged in public discourse, at least, not in social media where so many of “us” hang out. I pondered how it is that the collective weight of allied health – numbering far more than our medical colleagues – has not yet shifted our conversations about best ways to help people with pain away from symptom reduction, despite our lack of success when it comes to pain. How we continually fixate on “if the pain goes, the person will go back to normal”. How we tout exercise as The Cure despite such small effect sizes on pain intensity, quality and disability. And for exercise, we could substitute needles, manual therapy, taping, medications…. How we want simple recipes, algorithms that sort people into “responders” and “non-responders” while failing to acknowledge that so far we haven’t achieved this and besides these approaches assume that everyone wants the same outcome.

Taking a break from work offers me a chance to refresh my perspective. My pain, it must be said, doesn’t take a break. And that, folks, is the reality for so many people in our communities. Because persistent pain persists. When we’re at work, and when we’re on holiday. When we’re trying to sleep, and when we’re busy with family. And we all come from what was our normal lifestyle. And some clinicians think that if only we would – understand pain neurobiology, pace, exercise, eat right, use mindfulness, check our thinking and get rid of maladaptive beliefs… then life would be fine. But would that life be what I want? Would it look like my life? Would I be able to be ME inside that regimen of all those things?

Clinicians, we can often omit to ask “what’s your main concern about your pain?” And we often forget to find out what that person values in their life. Our goal setting turns out to be OUR goals, often based on pain reduction – or focused on achieving X, Y, Z. Doing this means attention is paid to the end point – but then the process of getting there is left out. And life is a process (OK a journey) not a goal (OK a destination).

As I approach my teaching this year, and my interactions online, I want to emphasise respecting the autonomy and strengths people living with pain bring with them. That a person’s life and choices are theirs to make – and if we try to change people, we’ll fail. We can invite people to experiment with, play with, test, try out different ways of being, but unless we understand a person’s values and work with them, we’re probably not going get more than superficial compliance. Let’s be respectful and honour the complexity of each individual we encounter – and let’s not treat them as part of an algorithm.

Modifying pain behaviour (1)


In my post last week I talked about pain behaviour and why pain behaviours are often a good treatment target in pain rehabilitation. I also talked about pain intensity rating scales and how, because rating scales are a form of communication, the numbers we obtain from them aren’t a true measure of pain: they reflect what the person wants to communicate about their pain to someone at that time and in that context.

This week I want to discuss modifying pain behaviour, and believe me, we are all in the business of modifying behaviour even if we think we’re doing something completely different!

Ethics

One of the issues about modifying behaviour is addressed right at the beginning of Fordyce’s chapter on “Techniques of behavioral analysis and behavior change” and this is the ethical issue of informed consent. It’s important because behaviour change using behaviour modification techniques can operate without the person’s awareness (and does so All The Time). As clinicians, though, we have an obligation to ensure we obtain informed consent from our patient/client before we embark on any treatment. Of course, you and I know that this doesn’t happen in the way that I’d like to see it! When I’m a patient, I’d like to have my options laid out in front of me, with the pro’s and con’s over both short and long term clearly explained. Then I can choose the option that I prefer. But actually, most of the time I’ve received treatment from any clinician, I’ve been given little or no information about alternatives – it’s been assumed that I’ll go along with what the clinician has chosen for me. How’s that for informed consent?

Back to behaviour change. Fordyce clearly details the approach he prefers which is clear discussion with the person about what is proposed – that “well” behaviour will be reinforced via social interaction and “praise”, and “unwell” behaviour will either be ignored or redirected.

Behaviour change done badly

Where I’ve seen behaviour modification done badly is where the clinician fails to indicate to the person that this is the approach being taken (ie no informed consent), where this is applied to all people irrespective of their treatment goals and without discriminating the types of behaviours to be modified, and where it’s applied without empathy or compassion. The kind of “one size fits all” approach. More about this in a minute.

Fordyce points out that “almost every behaviour change problem can be analysed into one or a combination of these three possibilities: 1) Some behaviour is not occurring often enough and needs to be increased or strengthened; 2) some behaviour is occurring too frequently and needs to be diminished in frequency or strength or eliminated; and 3) there is behaviour missing from the person’s repertoire that is needed and that therefore must be learned or acquired.”

Behavioural analysis (lite – more to come in another post!)

So we can work out which behaviours to focus on, as clinicians we need to do some behavioural analysis. This is often best carried out by observing the person – best in his or her natural environment because the contextual cues are present there – but at a pinch, in a clinic setting. I like video for analysing behaviour, particularly something like limping or guarding or compensatory movements, but larger repertoires of behaviour can be self-reported. For example, if someone recognises that they’re resting more often than they want (especially useful if the person values returning to work), then the person can time how long they rest for and work to reduce that time. Fitness trackers or movement trackers can be great for monitoring this. Other options include asking the person’s family about the particular behaviours they notice as indicators that the person is having trouble with their pain: people around the person with pain often know what’s happening well before the person has said anything!

Now this raises my earlier point about lacking empathy or compassion. It doesn’t feel normal to ignore someone who is wincing, looking “pained” or talking about how much they hurt. And this is why, I think, many clinicians don’t enjoy using behaviour modification in a deliberate way – it either feels unsympathetic, so we avoid it, or we do a 180 turn and we apply “ignore all pain behaviour” indiscriminately. Fordyce definitely did NOT suggest this!

Being human in behaviour change

So, how do we approach a person who is distressed? Do we ignore them or comfort them or what? In true time-honoured tradition, I’m going to say “It depends.”

First, we need to analyse the function of the distress in this context, and in the context of our treatment goals. Remember informed consent! We need to clearly articulate and obtain agreement for our behavioural target, and if someone is distressed and this isn’t our target, then we need to respond in an empathic and supportive way. If we’ve observed, however, that the person we’re working with is often distressed as we begin a new activity, perhaps one that pulls the person towards doing something unfamiliar or a bit scary, then we might have a conversation with the person about what we’ve seen, and with agreement, begin to modify our response.

When I describe “function” of distress in this context, I mean “what does the distress elicit from us, and for the person?” – what are the consequences of that distress for the person? If we reduce our expectations from the person, or the person avoids doing the new activity, then we can probably identify that the distress is functioning to reduce the demands we’re putting on the person. Our behaviour as a clinician is being modified by the behaviour of the person – and probably unwittingly. Reducing demands reduces anxiety, a bit, and it may be anxiety about doing that movement (or experiencing pain as a result of doing that movement) that’s eliciting distress. I wouldn’t say being distressed in this context is deliberate – but it’s functioning to draw us away from maintaining the treatment goals we developed with the person.

So what can we do? In this instance, we might remind the person of our agreement to stick to our plan of activity, we can acknowledge that they’re feeling anxious (that’s probably why we’re doing this activity in the first place!), we can reassure the person that we trust that they can do this (boosting self-efficacy via verbal encouragement), and we can maintain our treatment goal.

That’s hard!

Yep. Using this approach is not for the faint-hearted. It means we need to be observant, to always be thinking not just about the form of behaviour we’re seeing, but about its function. We need to monitor our own behaviour (verbal, facial expressions, subtle body shifts, all the non-verbal “tells” we make), and we need to change our own responses to what the person does. And often we find this self-awareness difficult to do. Most of our responses are “automatic” or habitual, and behaviour modification means we need to interrupt our habitual responses so we can help our patient/client do what matters to them.

For a brilliant description of Fordcye’s approach as applied in a case study, Fordyce, Shelton & Dundore (1982) is a great example of how a seriously disabled person was helped via this approach. Remember, this was carried out with the person’s full consent! Chapter 4 of Fordyce’s Behavioral Methods for Chronic Pain and Illness gives the best blow-by-blow description of how to go about this. And for a rebuttal to some of the criticisms of a behavioural approach to pain management, Fordyce, Roberts and Sternbach (1985) offer some very helpful points. That paper also offers some of the best analyses of pain behaviour and why it’s needed as part of pain rehabilitation.

Fordyce, W. E., Shelton, J. L., & Dundore, D. E. (1982). The modification of avoidance learning pain behaviors. Journal of behavioral medicine, 5(4), 405-414.

Fordyce, W. E., Roberts, A. H., & Sternbach, R. A. (1985). The behavioral management of chronic pain: a response to critics. Pain, 22(2), 113-125.

Musing on “the social” in pain rehabilitation


What do we think about when we consider “the social” as a factor in pain rehabilitation? Do we think of socioeconomic status? Maybe employment status? Perhaps societal attitudes towards pain and recovery? Do we ask if the person has someone they trust in their life? Maybe we even discuss how a relationship is going, whether the person sees their friends and family?

Have we forgotten that possibly the most potent influences on pain behaviour are the people around the person we’re seeing?

It will be no surprise to anyone reading my work over the past 10 or more years (yes, really! it HAS been that long!) that I love reading older pain theorists, researchers and historic approaches to pain. We can learn so much from the pioneers in this area – people like Waddell, Loeser, Main, and Fordyce. While some of the details of theoretical advances may have been superseded, the ideas they promoted remain as potent as ever.

Fordyce, in particular, attracts my interest. Bill Fordyce was a clinical psychologist who pioneered behavioural approaches to reducing disability for people living with persistent pain. Rather than offering repeated surgeries or medications, Fordyce looked to how what we do (behaviour) is reinforced by people and situations around us. From his work, we learned about activity pacing (decoupling the relationship between activity and pain by adopting a quota-based approach to activity), time contingent medication (using medications according to a time schedule rather than “as needed”), and we learned a great deal about how other people’s responses to an individual’s behaviour could inadvertently increase or reduce the frequency of that behaviour.

Why is this important? Well, aside from the way pain behaviours develop from childhood (crying? Mama will cuddle you. Want something? Cry – and Mama will cuddle you), responses from a person’s partner will likely influence both verbal complaints and physical movements (pain behaviours) such as grimacing, bracing and guarding, and in surprising ways. In fact, in an electronic diary study where people with chronic low back pain and their partners (who had no pain) were asked to record responses five times a day for 14 days, researchers found that when a spouse observed their partner’s pain behaviour at one time, they’d be more likely to be critical or hostile towards that person at a later time. If the spouses believed that the person with pain was “trying to influence their feelings” at the first observation, their responses were more likely to be critical or hostile – and it was the attributions made by partners that mediated between pain behaviours and the subsequent criticism leveled at the person (Burns, Gerhart, Post, Smith, Porter, Buvanendran, et al., 2018).

The so what question is sure to come up for some people. Why do we care? It’s not like we can do anything about this, is it? Well… you know me – writing about this stuff isn’t just for fun! The first thing to know is that if something is influencing a person’s behaviour and especially their disability, rehabilitation professionals should be aware of it. Relationship “stuff” is part and parcel of rehabilitation because it’s part of the person’s context. Secondly, it’s not about judging whether this is good, bad or indifferent – it’s about recognising an influence on the person and considering how we might support that person to respond in a way that enhances their recovery. Finally, we need to recognise how behavioural expressions and responses to them influence us. An earlier study by the same researcher (Burns, Higdon, Mullen, Lansky and Wei, 1999) found that expressions of anger and depression by the person influenced the therapeutic alliance with the health professional and this was perceived both by the person and his or her therapist.

Should we, can we do anything to help?

First, to the “should.” Whether we like it or not, these influences are occurring – so they are having an effect anyway, and both on us and the person we’re working with. We are also constantly influencing our patients because we’re inherently social animals. It’s just that we’re probably oblivious to our influence, and consequently are likely to react rather than respond. While I don’t advocate clinicians who haven’t undertaken specific training in relationship work to begin “therapy”, there are some basic things we can and I think, should, do. We should because we’re already influencing anyway – so let’s do something helpful.

The second is, can we do anything to help? Well, yes – because as I’ve said above, we’re influencing anyway. Everything we say and do will likely influence the person we’re seeing and possibly their partner and family.

The first thing we can do is let the person we’re working with know that what they say and do influences the people around them. This might be a revelation to some! We can let them know that this communication is not deliberate, and neither is the interpretation by the partner. It’s part of being human and social.

The next thing we do is offer some information to the person and their partner. Preferably written or video – something that the person can share with their partner. This information should be about the nature of persistent pain (in particular), and that a person’s pain behaviour is unintentional. In other words, that what a person does is explicitly not intended to make the partner “feel bad for them” (ie garner sympathy – in fact, quite often it’s the opposite of what the person really wants!); that they’re not intentionally wanting to avoid doing something; and finally, that they’re not intending to “give in to the pain too easily”.

Another thing we can share with the person and their partner is that because pain is personal and internal, openly communicating about what’s going on is important. None of us are good at mind-reading! The responsibility for obtaining help has to be with the person living with pain, not the person who is observing. This might mean the person with pain needs to think about what they want their partner to do. Often it’s nothing – no fuss, no molly-coddling (been dying to use that word for a while!). But if the person does want something, it’s really good to be specific and clear: “I can’t lift this, can you give me a hand”. This doesn’t mean taking over, BTW!

Where possible, I think it would be great to ask partners and family to be involved in rehabilitation. I wonder at insurers who don’t allow partners or family/whanau to be involved in rehabilitation. I think it’s detrimental – because increasingly, we know that the social context of daily life is such an important influence on disability. Asking partners to be part of rehabilitation might be a bit easier under “lockdown” conditions in many countries at the moment, but even without these conditions, perhaps recording selected parts of sessions, even having a meeting (virtual or face-to-face) might allow partners to be part of their loved one’s rehabilitation journey.

Burns, J. W., Gerhart, J., Post, K. M., Smith, D. A., Porter, L. S., Buvanendran, A., . . . Keefe, F. J. (2018). Spouse Criticism/Hostility Toward Partners With Chronic Pain: The Role of Spouse Attributions for Patient Control Over Pain Behaviors. J Pain, 19(11), 1308-1317. doi: 10.1016/j.jpain.2018.05.007

Burns, J. W., Higdon, L. J., Mullen, J. T., Lansky, D., & Wei, J. M. (1999). Relationships among patient hostility, anger expression, depression, and the working alliance in a work hardening program. Annals of Behavioral Medicine, 21(1), 77-82.

Radical? Radical!


Welcome to 2021! An interesting start to the year for my US friends, more of the same for my UK and European friends, and life in NZ and Australia goes on with an added dash of uncertainty because of the new! improved! more contagious Covid19!

I’ve had a few weeks away from my usual Monday morning writing routine, but I return to the blog today with a lovely book I’ve reviewed. There’s no secret about my personal preference for ACT both for living and flourishing in daily life, and for those of us living with persistent pain. Today’s book review is about Radical Relief: A guide to overcome chronic pain, written by Joe Tatta, physiotherapist. From the outset, I’ll acknowledge that I was sent a free promotional copy of this book – but I would have bought it anyway, I promise!

There are a few books I recommend for clinicians working with people living with pain. The first is a textbook called Pain: A textbook for health professionals which is one of the most accessible and clinically useful books for clinicians wanting to enhance their understanding beyond what they learned in undergrad training.

Another is an old CBT-based book written by Turk and Winter called The Pain Survival Guide which runs through the main conventional approaches to managing pain. It’s written for people with pain, and while there are certain parts I’m not certain are really well-supported by research, it offers the standard strategies that have been included in multi- and inter-professional pain management for years.

And now, Radical Relief arrives on the scene, and I think it will be another of those references I will use over and again. Radical Relief is written for people living with pain. It offers a “radical” way to returning to life, drawing on well-established, well-researched strategies for pain management from an Acceptance and Commitment Therapy perspective. For those who are not familiar with ACT, one of the major premises is that often our problem-solving mind gets in the way of us living a values-aligned life, particularly when we’re confronted with a situation or experience we can’t change.

Now I’m going to take a moment to comment on pain changing. Pain changes all the time. The intensity can go up and down. The quality might be intrusive – or fade into the background. It might be there all the time, or intermittently, or unexpectedly. There are so many factors that influence our experience of pain that it wouldn’t be at all surprising to find that most clinicians find that their patients experience at least some relief during or after treatment. And sometimes we clinicians like to take credit for that – and often we want to focus on getting a report from the patient that yes, pain has reduced. Sometimes we’ll almost do anything we can to find a way to “reduce the pain.” Part of the definition of pain (see here for the full definition and notes) includes the word “unpleasant” – “An unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with, or resembling that associated with, actual or potential tissue damage”, so I think it’s safe to assume most of us don’t want to experience pain. And yet we know that for many people, reducing pain intensity is not possible. That’s a fact that some clinicians don’t want to recognise. How we as clinicians handle our inability to alter pain intensity is a test of our willingness to read and acknowledge scientific literature.

OK, back to the book. ACT is based on the idea that underpinning successfully navigating life is a concept called psychological flexibility. This concept consists of six processes that appear to underpin how we can be psychologically flexible in the face of an unpredictable and challenging world. Joe Tatta, in this book, articulates these processes as they can be employed by people living with pain. How to be open, willing, aware and do what matters to you in the presence of pain, and all that this experience brings with it.

I won’t review how ACT might help – there’s plenty of information available on the web, including my blog, for those who aren’t familiar with it. I will, though, say that the way Joe writes is clear, succinct and empty of jargon. He writes as if he’s speaking directly to the reader. The sentences are short and full of questions to ask yourself. The chapters are also short and offer activities to try. Joe identifies that some of the activities might feel odd – they’re not “typical” of many self-help suggestions, because Joe invites readers to experiment, to try, to see what happens, to be open to what happens. This is refreshing!

Some features of this book that I particularly like are the room to write your own thoughts and responses down. The certificate at the end of the book is delightful. And the illustrations – gorgeous!

I think if I was a person who came across this book I’d be intrigued by it. I think I’d find it easy to read, and I’d be willing to try at least some of the ways Joe suggests. If I worked through this with a clinician, I think I’d find it even more useful. It’s not easy to step outside of yourself and recognise your mind’s sticky thoughts and attitudes. It’s hard to make changes on your own. So it’s not the way the book is written that means I’d suggest using it with the support of a coach or clinician, it’s simply the nature of motivation to change in the face of pain.

Now ACT has been found to be no more (and no less) effective than CBT (or indeed any other treatment approach we have: surgery, medications, exercise) for persistent pain. This doesn’t mean ACT “doesn’t work” – it just means that, like any of our approaches to persistent pain management, it’s not a case of one size fits all, or one therapy will be the magic bullet. I’ve advocated for a while that precisely because we have no over-arching “successful” treatment, this offers clinicians and people with pain an opportunity to find out the unique combination of strategies that are helpful for this person at this time and in this context. ACT, although it includes the term “acceptance” does not mean “resignation” – I prefer the term “willingness” to experience pain (rather than doing everything possible to suppress or avoid pain) in the pursuit of what matters. ACT’s functional contextualist philosophy means we need to ask “how well is this working?” about everything we do – because the ultimate measure of success is about whether the approach is helping us do what matters in a particular context. I think that’s pretty radical myself. And, like this book, while we won’t always have a “perfect” outcome, we can MOVE.

M= Make room for unpleasant sensations (and thoughts!)

O= Open up and observe non-judgementally

V= Values guide life, not pain

E= Engage in activities in line with your values

Thanks for the opportunity to review your book Joe, I appreciated it very much.

Bias: Is pain all the same?


The topic of how we define pain, and how humans respond to pain has come up for me as I mull over the IASP definition of pain. The current (new) definition is this:

An unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with, or resembling that associated with, actual or potential tissue damage.

Six key notes:

  • Pain is always a personal experience that is influenced to varying degrees by biological, psychological, and social factors.
  • Pain and nociception are different phenomena. Pain cannot be inferred solely from activity in sensory neurons.
  • Through their life experiences, individuals learn the concept of pain.
  • A person’s report of an experience as pain should be respected.
  • Although pain usually serves an adaptive role, it may have adverse effects on function and social and psychological well-being.
  • Verbal description is only one of several behaviors to express pain; inability to communicate does not negate the possibility that a human or a nonhuman animal experiences pain.

Now, for me the definition works fine – definitions describe and establish boundaries around what is being defined. Definitions don’t have to include all the uses of the term but instead just have to be distinct and clear, to “express the essential nature of something” as Merriam-Webster puts it.

Alongside this definition are notes about the function of pain – in other words, the notes (but not the definition) attempt to indicate why we experience pain. ‘An adaptive role‘ – in other words, pain serves a purpose in most cases and it may have adverse effects.

The question that leaps out to me now is what is the adaptive purpose of pain? This is the question that vexes many commentators who really don’t like the idea of what one author has called “maldynia“. Maldynia is thought to be “bad pain” that is severe, disabling and long-lived. I’m not fond of the word, but I do think there are pains that are not “adaptive” and these are amongst the ones that puzzle us the most in clinical practice. Things like phantom limb pain, nonspecific low back pain, complex regional pain syndrome and dear old fibromyalgia.

Back to the adaptive purpose of pain. Right now I have a cracked area on my heel. It’s quite a deep crack and it hurts every time I put my foot down. The way I’m using that information (the ‘ouch’) is to notice that yep, the crack is deep and there is tissue damage. And I am doing something about it by looking for urea-based cream and covering it while I work in the garden. I’ve (1) noticed tissue damage; (2) recognised that I need to do something about it; and (3) from experience, know that it will settle down and no longer be painful once the tissues have healed. I’ll also take care in the future to treat my heels so they remain soft as a baby’s bottom.

The metaphor of pain as an alert and action prompt serves quite well for me at the moment. And in most cases this is how we experience pain. Another example: I burned my thumb and finger on a soldering iron recently – you bet that hurt! I let go of the soldering iron PDQ, soaked my thumb and finger in cold water, then covered them until they had healed. The pain I experienced settled down after a day or so (unless I held a hot coffee cup!), and the new skin was a little tender for a couple of weeks. Again – pain served a purpose to alert me to stop doing dumb stuff, to protect the area, and to learn not to grab hold of the wrong end of the soldering iron! The metaphor of pain as an alert, call to action and learning experience again worked pretty well.

Now over the last few years I’ve had shoulder pain, imaging showed a bit of an enlarged bursa, a tiny fragment of calcification. This pain hasn’t settled down, even after I had cortisone injection AND did all the movement stuff including strength (yes – I did strength stuff!). Where oh where is the purpose or function of pain in this instance? Pain is not serving me well – I’ve been alerted, I’ve acted on that alert, nothing has changed and the metaphor breaks down.

But let’s take a look at the notes from IASP again – “Although pain usually serves an adaptive role” – usually. Usually. So there are times when pain does not serve an adaptive role. I think my shoulder pain, my groin pain, and my neck and back pain (yep, good old fibromyalgia) does not serve a function. I can’t think of any utility in having a grumpy body that really gripes about doing everyday movements like getting dressed, standing up from a chair, turning to look our the rear window of my car while I reverse down the driveway or aches in different parts of my body on different days then moves somewhere else at random.

A hidden assumption of the pain definition notes is that the “adaptive role” is reserved for those with a normally functioning nervous system, and where pain is associated with nociceptive activity, or inflammation. What if a nerve itself is damaged? What if the spinal cord is diseased or traumatised? What if there are changes to the way the nervous system processes information (we have that in every other sensory process, and in every other body system)? The experience of pain remains the same – still the same old aching, burning, gnawing, stinging sensations and the “ew”, “I don’t want this”, frustrating, totally unpleasant sensory and emotional experience as defined. The adaptive function, however? Not present.

The thing is, while I focus on persistent pain, most pain by far is not ongoing. I expect my heel crack to heal and the pain to go, and my now-slightly scarred finger and thumb are fine now.

Yes, the epidemiology of persistent pain shows that the prevalence of pain that goes on for more than three months is between 13–50% of adults in the UK. Of those who live with chronic pain, 10.4–14.3% were found to have moderate-to-severe disabling chronic pain (Fayaz, Croft, Langford, Donaldson & Jones, 2016). Similar findings for New Zealand – 16% of NZers live with pain lasting three months or more.

But given I think most of us will hurt ourselves at least once this year (especially with the lockdowns and stress of COVID19 and the economy and elections…), this means that more often than not, our experiences of pain are the acute kind. The ones that do alert us to notice what’s happening in our body, to take some kind of action, and to learn something useful from this experience.

So, while the metaphor of an alarm, alert, “danger signal” or “bear” or “beast” doesn’t hold up for all of our pain experiences, on the whole, it works. And the purpose of metaphor is “a way of conceiving of one thing in terms of another, and its primary function is understanding” (Lakoff and Johnson, 2003). Ultimately, we use metaphors like these to generate a sense of purpose for an experience that is commonplace, and the most common pain we have is a short-term, temporary one. Let’s not let my bias towards persistent pain lead me astray.

Fayaz A., Croft P., Langford R., Donaldson J., Jones G. Prevalence of chronic pain in the UK: a systematic review and meta-analysis of population studies. BMJ Open. 2016;6

Lakoff G, Johnson M. Metaphors we live by. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003:36.

Merskey H., Bogduk N., editors. IASP task force on taxonomy, Part III: Pain Terms, A Current List with Definitions and Notes on Usage. IASP Press; Seattle, WA: 1994. pp. 209–214.