Nearly a year and a half ago I managed to hit the biological reverse lottery and wind up with a medical condition called *chronic *non-bacterial prostatitis. The diagnosis took about four months, eight doctors, countless nurses, and over a half a dozen tests. On top of all of that, even though it wasn’t going to kill me or cause any major harm,  it hurt more than anything I’ve ever experienced. Pain assumed a whole new role in my life, and my days revolved around how bad I hurt at any given time.

After around five months I finally managed to get to the point where the pain was under control and I was able to get on with my life, yet the shadow of that pain remains in the back of my mind. Something I never want to have to deal with again. It also has given me a new insight on the struggles of those who are afflicted with chronic pain that are unable to get any relief, and those whose pain is accompanied by a disease or condition that will ultimately result in their death. I know that I’m extremely lucky in comparison.

Today’s poem echoes my feelings when I would lay in bed depressed during the darkest and most difficult times caused by my condition.

Five O’Clock Shadow

This is the time of day when we in the Men’s ward
Think “one more surge of the pain and I give up the fight.”
When he who struggles for breath can struggle less strongly:
This is the time of day which is worse than night.

A haze of thunder hangs on the hospital rose-beds,
A doctors’ foursome out on the links is played,
Safe in her sitting-room Sister is putting her feet up:
This is the time of day when we feel betrayed.

Below the windows, loads of loving relations
Rev in the car park, changing gear at the bend,
Making for home and a nice big tea and the telly:
“Well, we’ve done what we can. It can’t be long till the end.”

This is the time of day when the weight of bedclothes
Is harder to bear than a sharp incision of steel.
The endless anonymous croak of a cheap transistor
Intensifies the lonely terror I feel.

– Sir John Betjeman