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# I’m Afraid to Ask
- URL: https://fessup.mymidnight.blog/im-afraid-to-ask/
- Published: 2026-09-21T14:51:20.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-07T16:10:58.000Z
- Description: I know I need to say something. I’m just terrified of saying the wrong thing.
- Author: Jerry Fess
- Tags: chronic pain, paget's disease, opioid crisis, pain management, bone pain, pain, opioid, chronic illness, cervical stenosis, Newsletter, #Migrated-1791389245739, #Import 2026-10-07 11:10

I can feel it getting worse.

![a bottle filled with pills sitting on top of a wooden table](https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1631669969504-f35518bf96ba?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwyfHxwaWxsJTIwYm90dGxlfGVufDB8fHx8MTc5MDAwMTUwNXww&ixlib=rb-4.1.0&q=80&w=1080)

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There really isn’t a better way to put it. My pain is getting worse and so is my mobility. Things I used to be able to push through are getting harder to push through. And lately I’ve found myself thinking about something I really don’t want to think about.

I think I may need an increase in my pain medication.

Even writing that makes me nervous.

Because how do you say that without it sounding wrong?

Do I just come right out and say it? Do I wait for my doctor to bring it up? Do I describe everything that hurts and hope she comes to that conclusion herself? Am I allowed to just say, “This isn’t working as well anymore”?

These are ridiculous things to have to worry about when you’re talking to your doctor, but I worry about every one of them.

And believe me, I have plenty I could tell her.

But here’s the really screwed-up part.

I could describe every single thing that’s happening to me and still think to myself, *Yeah, but is any of that going to help my case?*

My case.

Listen to that.

Why do I even feel like I have a “case” to make?

I’ve done the creams and gels. I’ve used lidocaine patches. I even had a compounded cream with ketamine in it. I’ve done physical therapy for years. I’ve had injections. I stretch. I use traction. I’ve tried the other stuff.

Some things have helped a little. Some haven’t done much at all.

But the one treatment that has consistently done the best job of hitting all these different kinds of pain at once has been my pain medication.

I know saying that makes some people uncomfortable.

Hell, it makes me uncomfortable, and I’m the one taking it.

I’m not saying everybody with chronic pain should be handed opioids. I’m not saying there aren’t risks. Of course there are. I’m saying that after years of living in this body and trying different treatments, I know what has helped me function.

And right now it’s not helping as much as it used to.

There. That’s the sentence I’m scared to say out loud.

Because the next logical sentence is, *I think an increase might help.*

And **THAT** is the sentence that scares the hell out of me.

What if I say it wrong? What if I sound too eager? What if knowing too much about my own medication somehow looks suspicious? What if somebody decides I’m *“drug seeking”*?

And probably the one that scares me the most: What if I ask for more and somehow end up losing what I already have?

So instead of simply talking to my doctor, I’m sitting here trying to figure out the right way to talk to my doctor.

That’s insane.

I’m not sitting around thinking, *How can I get more drugs?*

I’m thinking, *how honest can I afford to be?*

There’s a big difference.

I understand how we got here. I understand what the opioid crisis did and why these medications are treated differently now. I understand the need for caution.

![A handful of colorful pills and capsules held in an open palm](https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1607874963930-2edecc67a25a?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHw4fHxwaWxscyUyMGNyZWFtcyUyMHBoeXNpY2FsfGVufDB8fHx8MTc5MDAwMDUxNXww&ixlib=rb-4.1.0&q=80&w=1080)

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But somewhere along the way, caution turned into fear.

Doctors are afraid.

Patients are afraid.

And somewhere in the middle of all that fear is somebody sitting in a chair saying, “I hurt.”

That’s me right now.

I don’t want to walk into my next appointment demanding anything. That’s not what this is about. I just want to be able to tell the truth.

My pain has gotten worse.

My mobility has gotten worse.

We’ve tried a lot of things.

This medication has helped me more than anything else has.

It isn’t helping enough anymore.

So what do we do now?

Maybe my doctor thinks an increase makes sense. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe there’s something else we need to try. Maybe some of these worsening symptoms mean we need to look at something completely different.

Fine.

That’s a medical conversation. That’s what I *want* to have.

I can handle hearing an answer I don’t necessarily want to hear.

What I hate is being afraid to ask the question in the first place.

I shouldn’t have to rehearse this conversation in my head before I walk into the room. I shouldn’t have to analyze every word I’m going to use or wonder if I sounded a little too knowledgeable, a little too desperate, or maybe not desperate enough.

I shouldn’t feel like one wrong sentence could suddenly change how my doctor sees me.

But I do.

And I’m mad about it.

Mostly because right now this isn’t some hypothetical thing I’m writing about. This is what it feels like to live in my body right now.

![](https://cdn.mymidnight.blog/faafda66202d234463057972460c04f5/2026/10/ac893859-4f67-4972-9125-368e8b2b7624_390x258.png)

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My knees feel like razor blades cutting into my skin and bone every time I walk. That’s the best way I know how to describe it. Every step can feel sharp and cutting, and sometimes just getting up and crossing a room becomes something I have to think about before I do it.

My feet are almost numb. There’s still sensation there, but it’s dulled and strange, like they’re slowly becoming less connected to the rest of me. It’s one more thing that makes walking harder and makes me less confident on my feet.

My neck won’t turn the way it used to. It feels stuck. The range of motion seems to get smaller and smaller, to the point where sometimes I have to turn more of my body just to look in another direction. My shoulders are shot too. They ache, they tighten up, and they seem to join in whenever my neck decides it’s going to have a particularly bad day.

Cervical stenosis has affected my posture too, and that one gets to me more than you might think. I spent most of my 54 years studying music. As a cellist, posture wasn’t some little thing somebody reminded you about once in a while. It was drilled into you. How you sit, how you hold your shoulders, where you hold your head, how your whole body lines up with the instrument. I spent years being aware of my posture.

Now I catch myself hunched over because of the pain. My neck and shoulders pull me forward and I have to consciously try to straighten myself back up. Sometimes I look at myself and barely recognize the way I’m carrying my own body.

For someone who spent so much of his life being taught exactly how to hold himself, it’s hard watching pain slowly change the way I do it.  
  
And then there’s the Paget’s bone disease on top of everything else.

That pain is different.

It’s this deep, throbbing bone pain that I’ve never really figured out how to explain. It’s not the same as a sore muscle. It’s not even like a bad joint. It feels like it’s coming from somewhere much deeper, somewhere I can’t stretch or rub or put a heating pad on and make it go away.

It’s just there.

Deep inside.

And it hurts.

All of this has taken a toll on my overall strength too. I’m weaker than I used to be, and I notice it. Things take more effort. Getting up, walking, standing for very long, doing ordinary things around the house. Pain makes you move less, and moving less makes you weaker. Then being weaker makes moving even harder.

Around and around it goes.

And little by little, your world can start getting smaller without you even realizing it’s happening.

That’s the part I don’t want people to miss when we’re talking about pain medication.

I’m not chasing a number on a pain scale. I’m trying to hold on to function. I’m trying to hold on to mobility. I’m trying to hold on to whatever independence my body will still give me.

![](https://cdn.mymidnight.blog/faafda66202d234463057972460c04f5/2026/10/486e71e8-6d53-43cb-be6e-fd54aaf8ddcb_612x367-jpeg.jpg)

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That’s why I need to have this conversation.

Not because I want more pills.

Because I want more of my life back.

I want to walk without feeling like razor blades are cutting into my knees. I want to turn my head without having to turn my whole body. I want to trust my feet underneath me. I want enough strength left to keep doing the things I can still do for as long as I possibly can.

I’m not asking for a pain-free life. I gave up on that idea a long time ago.

I’m asking for a little more room to live inside the one I have.

Maybe that’s what I need to remember when I finally sit across from my doctor.

I’m not asking her to simply give me more medication.

I’m asking her to listen to what’s happening, look at what’s changed, and help me figure out whether my treatment needs to change with it.

I’m asking her to help me keep moving.

I just hope I can get the words out.

And I’m afraid.

---

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