There’s a bottle of oramorph in my medicine drawer.  Liquid morphine.  It’s sickly sweet, measured in a little cup or syringe.  An opioid painkiller, it’s related to heroin.  It binds to receptors in the spinal cord and brain, blocking the body’s natural response to pain.  It doesn’t necessarily take away pain, but it certainly makes you care less about it.  It’s strong.  It puts you in a woozy haze, somewhere between awake and asleep.  It’s addictive.  Tolerance levels build.  Chronic pain patients can end up taking doses that would kill someone taking it for the first time, and yet they can still be experiencing pain.  Anti-sickness tablets are an essential counterpart, as is water, lots of water, or even better a freezer full of ice-lollies.  Don’t get me started on the drug-induced hangover.

I used to drink the sticky sweet stuff every two hours with extra, equally strong, meds in between.  This particular bottle has remained unopened for a long time, a whole year in fact.  Its presence reassures me.  As does the seal firmly in tact.  Whilst I still take regular medication, and I am by no means saying it doesn’t have a place, my overall use has significantly decreased over the last few years, despite having severe symptoms to manage.  What’s that down to?  A number of factors, I expect.

I have no doubt the techniques I’ve learnt with support of specialist Cognitive Behavioural, Occupational and Physio Therapists have helped me self-manage my pain.  But I am sure the other major contributing factor is my meditation practice.

How does meditation help me manage chronic pain?

• I can observe my pain, rather than being drawn into it.
• I can allow pain to be, rather than fight it.
• I can watch the peaks and troughs with curiosity, rather than fear.
• I can find clarity and space to be able to respond in a helpful and kind way.
• I can recognise when I’m responding in a less helpful way, in my thoughts (“I can’t cope”) and my body (increased physical tension).
• I can be aware of other experiences, including pleasant ones, at the same time as experiencing pain, rather than it being all consuming.
• I have no adverse side-effects or risk of dependency.
• I can help my overall well-being and other areas of my life whilst managing my pain.

I’d rather share my personal experiences than delve too far into the scientific evidence, but plenty of research into the efficacy of mindfulness for chronic pain management has, and is, being done.  A fascinating interview discussing changes in the brain of meditators revealed on brain scans is featured in ‘Harvard neuroscientist: Meditation not only reduces stress, here’s how it changes your brain‘.  ‘Can mindfulness meditation really reduce pain and suffering?’ is a very interesting article explaining how the mind processes pain and how meditation can positively influence this, as well as ways to get started if you’re new to the practice.  ‘Could meditation help address the opioid epidemic?’ places mindfulness in the context of this ever growing problem, explores some of the trials where it’s been proven to be beneficial and suggests it as a possible first-line treatment.  Anecdotal evidence pops up time and again, including in the June/July issue of Healthy magazine, where a lady describes how she learnt to self-manage debilitating headaches using mindfulness in ‘Revealed: The truth about your painkillers’.

As Ruby Wax pointed out in her book, ‘Sane New World‘, there’s only one letter difference between medication and meditation.  It might not be a question of either/or, but if I had to choose between a dose of sickly sweet oramorph or devoting time to my meditation practice, I know which I’d go for.