Hey, I’m one of you — diagnosed a few years ago, been through the whole rollercoaster. So let me talk to you straight about cancer pain, because nobody explains it like someone who’s felt it at a.m.

About 8 out of 10 of us deal with pain at some point. For some it’s the first red flag that sends us to the doctor; for others it only shows up when things are more advanced. And yeah, some lucky folks sail through with almost none. Pain isn’t a measure of how “bad” your cancer is or how brave you are — it’s just biology being rude.

If you do have it, it can be anything from a nagging ache you can ignore to the kind that makes you curl up and cry. Everybody’s pain is different, so there’s no one-size-fits-all fix. That’s why it drives me nuts when someone says “just take Tylenol” — please tell your team exactly what it feels like and how it’s messing with your life.

Where the pain comes from

- The tumor itself pushing on bones, nerves, or organs (bone mets were my personal hell for months).

- Treatments — chemo can make your whole body feel bruised, radiation can burn, and surgery… well, getting cut open hurts, no sugarcoating it.

- A wrecked immune system letting shingles or mouth sores move in like they own the place.

The good news? We’re not in the 1950s anymore. Cancer pain is one of the most treatable symptoms there is. Nine out of ten of us get real relief once the team gets the mix right. It just sometimes takes tweaking.

What actually helped me (and helps most people)

They’ll usually start simple:

- Mild to moderate pain → acetaminophen, ibuprofen, aspirin — stuff you can grab at the drugstore.

- When that’s not enough → opioids (morphine, oxycodone, fentanyl patches, etc.). Yes, the strong stuff. And yes, you can take them without turning into a junkie — that fear kept me suffering way longer than I needed to.

- Burning, electric, pins-and-needles nerve pain → meds like gabapentin or duloxetine, or sometimes older antidepressants (amitriptyline saved me when chemo wrecked my feet).

- Pain from swelling or inflammation → a short burst of steroids (prednisone, dexamethasone).

Non-drug stuff that isn’t just fluff

I was skeptical too, but some of these actually move the needle when meds alone aren’t cutting it:

- Heating pad or ice packs (whichever feels better that day)

- Massage (even gentle — my partner just rubbing my back helped)

- Distraction — binge-watching a dumb show, puzzles, anything to give your brain a break

- Breathing exercises or guided meditation apps (the VA sent me some good ones)

- TENS unit — looks like a little sci-fi gadget, sticks on your skin, buzzes the pain away

- Acupuncture — weirdly effective for some of us

- Physical therapy to keep you moving so you don’t freeze up

When pills and patches aren’t enough

Sometimes the tumor is sitting right on a nerve or bone and nothing touches it. That’s when they bring out bigger tools:

- A quick zap of radiation to shrink the spot that’s screaming (worked like magic on my spine met)

- Surgery to debulk a tumor that’s crushing something

- Nerve blocks or a pain pump implanted under the skin (life-changing for some people I know)

What does it actually feel like?

It can be deep and achy (bones), sharp and stabbing, squeezing (organs), or that special nerve hell — burning, electric shocks, pins-and-needles that make you want to crawl out of your skin. Sometimes it’s constant, sometimes it comes in waves. Tell your team which kind you’ve got — it points them to the right meds.

Side effects — let’s be real

Yeah, opioids can make you sleepy the first few days, constipated (stock up on stool softeners the minute you fill the script), itchy, or queasy. But most of that gets better or can be managed. I’d rather be slightly loopy and able to hug my kids than “toughing it out” in agony. Tell your nurse or palliative doc the second something bothers you — they can fix almost all of it.

Bottom line

You do not have to live like this. Pain that keeps you from eating, sleeping, or laughing with the people you love is not “part of the deal.” Rate it, describe it, bug them until it’s better. You deserve to feel like a person, not just a patient.

You’re not alone in this — been there, still here, sending you a giant (gentle) hug. Keep fighting for the relief you need. You’ve got this.