In Franz Kafka's novel, The Trial, the protagonist is a bank clerk named Joseph K who one day awakens to find himself arrested and accused of an unspecified crime. Although he is technically "under arrest" he is free to go on with his normal life while the trial proceeds. Though he never finds out the nature of the crime he is accused of, he nonetheless tries to defend his innocence, which only results in the case against him being made stronger. As he is subjected to one absurdity after another, he becomes increasingly angry and obsessed with the proceedings against him, and denounces them in an appearance before the court, which he is convinced exists solely to bring false accusations against innocent men. In the end, he finally acquiesces to his fate, and leads two policemen to his place of execution where he is stabbed in the heart and murdered "like a dog."
In many ways, the fate of far too many people with chronic pain in 21st Century America mirrors that of Joseph K, as we too often find ourselves trapped in a "Kafkaesque" nightmare where we have a lifetime sentence of torture hanging over our heads in a system where we are guilty until proven innocent, and we are subjected to a set of arbitrary and absurd rules, created by others, that are never truly explained to us, yet we are nonetheless considered to be guilty and therefore deserving of our fate, regardless of whether we truly violated those rules or not. We are simply presumed to have violated them. We may feel compelled to protest our innocence, but being innocent begs the question "innocent of what?", which is a question we can't really answer, because we are never told what we've allegedly done wrong. Like Kafka's overarching court in The Trial, the medical system which serves as your judge, jury, executioner and court stenographer regards any attempts by you to prove your innocence as evidence that you’re in fact guilty as charged.
If you are familiar with the tactics of Joseph K's interrogators in The Trial, this surreal but real-life exchange between a nurse and a chronic pain patient (also a nurse) will seem eerily similar to you:
She said she was very sorry for my discomfort but that i couldnt have any morphine. I was surprised by her words and i responded that i didnt want any, that i was admitted because I wanted to discontinue the morphine. She said, I know but you still cant have any. I said, I didnt ask for any. She said, You see how agitated you become when i deny you morphine? I said, you cant deny me what i havn't requested. She said, You are behaving very aggressively now, did you hear your voice rise? I said, this sounds like a comic strip to me, I do not want any morphine. She wrote in her notes "Aggressive when denied morphine"
When i saw the pain team, i relayed the entire conversation to them and they changed the notes. Although i appreciate this nurse must have some personality issues, it remains both a comic strip and a warning in my mind.
Throughout his ordeal, Joseph K meets various people who are associated with the court in various way, not just lawyers and judges, but a priest, a court painter, and even a group of young girls who the painter explains are controlled by the court, as the court controls everything. The painter explains the various types of acquittal possible, which are an absolute acquittal, an apparent acquittal, and a deferment. He points out that no one in his experience has ever gotten an absolute acquittal, but an apparent acquittal is possible. This involves the court removing the indictment against a particular person, but allowing the charges to hang over his head, so that at any time a judge can bring the charges against the defendant again and the trial begins anew. This is why the acquittal is only "apparent," as it is not a real acquittal. The best bet Joseph has is to get a deferment, which involves tying the case up in the lower court for years so that a verdict is never rendered, but this involves being in continuous contact with the court, staying closely involved with the case, and making regular appointments with the judges, who he has to try and keep on his side.
Many people with chronic pain are naive about the way our system works. They assume because they are not drug addicts, or malingerers, or looking to sell their drugs, that they are presumed innocent because they are in fact innocent. They assume that if they are receiving pain treatment, than this is an absolute vote of confidence from the medical profession, similar to the "absolute acquittal" described by the painter in Kafka's story, where they are to be judged as "worthy" of pain relief from then on. Nothing could be further from the truth. From the moment a chronic pain patient walks into his doctor's office, "the trial" begins, and it is a trial in which he is presumed guilty until he can in fact establish his innocence. Even so, there is rarely an absolute acquittal, and even if you can manage to get a temporary reprieve and get your pain treated, "the trial" can resume at any time, and you can easily find yourself facing false charges, just as the painter explains can happen to Joseph K. However, those charges will rarely be spelled out to you so that you may respond to them specifically. Instead, you are likely to hear little more than that your doctor is no longer "comfortable" with prescribing your meds.
So in our lovely medical system, as in Kafka's nightmare world, the best you can hope for is a deferment of your sentence, to stay continuously engaged with the system, meeting regularly with your doctors and doing everything they say, always endeavoring to keep them on your side, simply trying to postpone or defer the possibility that a final verdict of "guilty!" will be decided and a sentence of torture be enforced against you by cutting you off from the medication you need.
In one part of The Trial the priest recites to Joseph K. a parable called "Before the Law." It is too lengthy to repeat here, but this reading by Orson Welles from his film version of The Trial should get you thinking about the kinds of "doorkeepers" we as cp'ers have to deal with:
Like the man in this story, we too are seeking admittance, though in our case, it is not to the law, but to pain relief. There are many doorkeepers we have to face to gain admittance, the first of which is our doctor. Like the doorkeeper here, we cannot enter in the face of his veto...or can we? He is also very powerful, but he is only one of many doorkeepers, all of whom are more powerful than him. These include society as a whole, the police, the legal system, and the doorkeeper that is so terrible, even your doctor can't bear to look at him: The DEA. We think if we bribe our doorkeeper with narcissistic supply, or if we just play the game and go through all the treatments he recommends so he can get his kickbacks and earn his money, he will finally let us in. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't, but he always takes our gifts. We may be tempted to beg the nurses and even the receptionist to plead our case before the doorkeeper, as the man in the story begs the fleas on the guard's collar to do so. We also think that pain relief should be accessible to anyone, except those "scumbag junkies" we have all been brainwashed into despising, of course. What we fail to realize, like the man in this story, is that the door was never meant to keep those "scumbag junkies" out, it was meant for us all along.
This system was not set up to keep addicts from getting their hands on narcotics, it was set up to keep you from gaining easy access to cheap, readily available medications to treat your pain. In doing this, it empowers and enriches those who supply the medications we need, but also those who have been appointed doorkeepers over the supply, which keeps them motivated to continue to serve this role. Without the doorkeepers, there is no real profit to be had in supplying pain medicine, as it is cheap as dirt to produce and would sell just as cheaply in the absence of a system to artificially inflate its price through monopoly pricing. It is the destructive result of rent-seeking behavior by the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies.
There are many rules that govern who does and does not gain admittance, but the problem is that these rules are never explained to us, other than the obvious ones like you can't legally buy pain meds on the streets. Kafka wrote an essay called "The Problem of our Laws," that addresses this very dilemma:
Our laws are not generally known; they are kept secret by the small group of nobles who rule us. We are convinced that these ancient laws are scrupulously administered; nevertheless, it is an extremely painful thing to be ruled by laws that one does not know....for the laws were made to the advantage of the nobles from the very beginning, they themselves stand above the laws, and that seems to be why the laws were entrusted exclusively into their hands. Of course, there is wisdom in that--who doubts the wisdom of the ancient laws?--but also hardship for us; probably that is unavoidable.
We can never say for certain why a particular doctor might treat one patient and not another, as each has his own criteria, which are often completely arbitrary. If before entering your doctor's office a strong wind frequently messes up your hair, giving you a disheveled appearance, your doctor might decide to refuse treatment on this basis, as people with a disheveled appearance are perceived to be drug-seekers. But it might not make the least difference to another doctor. It shouldn't make a difference to anybody, but arbitrary criteria based on nothing but medical folklore, personal bias and whatever whim the doctor has that day will be the deciding factors in whether you get treated or not, so you should learn at least some of the rules that they will never tell you. What can be said with utter certainty, is that these rules were set up by the nobility that rules over us like feudal lords, and there are those who cannot bring themselves to question the "wisdom" of this ancient system.
At the end of The Trial, Joseph K leads his executioners to a stone quarry, and turns up his neck while they stab him through the heart, totally cooperating with the process, and dying "like a dog," which are his last words. I can't say how many times I have seen this behavior in people with chronic pain whose lives have been destroyed by this system. They will defend to their last breath the very doctors who denied them treatment and blame themselves or other people with chronic pain for the fact they can't get their pain treated, as if it's the fault of anybody but the black-hearted barbarians who stand in the way of the right of an individual to be free of pain. We are not dogs, we are human beings, even if dogs are often treated with more dignity and compassion than we are. We should demand the right to be treated with dignity and respect, and to be masters of our own fate, rather than wait for someone to hand it to us. If The Trial has anything to teach those of us who suffer from chronic pain, it's that we should not "go gentle into that good night," turn up our necks and wait for the dagger, but should join together to resist this monstrous and Kafkaesque system. Until we do, "the trial" will continue.
