As an amputee myself – albeit nowhere near on the scale of amputee as Dean’s talking about – I have to say that this TED talk meant a lot to me. Not just because it’s exciting to see the future of prosthetic technology, but because of what it means for the lives of all the men and women I’ve had the privilege to meet at Walter Reed and Bethesda Naval Hospital.

    Several years ago, I used to go to the Pain Clinic at Walter Reed Army Medical Center once a month for different therapies to treat the pain not only from the loss of my toe, but also from the Arnold-Chiari Malformation to leads to frequent and severe headaches. This was before I was diagnosed with the Dercum’s Disease, but they certainly tried to treat that pain too, even though we didn’t know what was causing it at the time. My doctors worked hard; it was fascinating to see them all trying to figure out ways to solve my myriad health problems. But the most fascinating part of those monthly visits to the pain clinic, was sitting in the waiting room.

    I shared that waiting room with men and women returning from war. Nearly all of them were amputees, the kind Dean was talking about. And I can tell you, from first hand experience, what he described in that TED talk was completely 100% accurate. I never saw a single one of them sitting in that waiting room without a smile on their face. Even with everything they’d been through, they would always ask me why I was there, what I was going through. Despite all of my attempts to play down what I was going through, they taught me a very important lesson, one I’ll never forget.

    There was one particular man there that I always seemed to bump into. Our appointments almost always seemed to coincide with each other. I never learned his name, but we’d always say hello and he’d always ask how my foot was doing, if my headaches were any better. When I’d ask him how he was doing, he’d always smile, even laugh, and say that he was still waiting for his right leg to grow back. “I just know,” he’d say, “one day I’m gonna wake up, and BAM, it’s gonna be right there!”

    At one of my last visits to the pain clinic, I distinctly remember walking in one day, disappointed to not see him there, sitting in his wheelchair. But my disappointment didn’t last long, because as soon as I went to sit down, he walked right around the corner with that trademark grin on his face. Walking. When he saw me, he immediately beamed at me and said, “See! I told you! BAM!” He knocked his fist against the plastic prosthetic – they’d just fit it on him for the first time and he was taking it out for an inaugural test drive.

    That man, whose name I’ll never know, taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. Every time I’d see him and the other soldiers, who had suffered so much, I’d try desperately not to talk about myself. I felt ashamed, sitting among them, taking time away from doctors who should be treating them, not me. I felt that my problems were so insignificant compared to theirs; that if only I wasn’t such a wuss, I’d be able to deal with these obviously minor problems on my own without having to waste their doctors’ time.

    Obviously, this attitude became rather apparent. During one of my conversations with this particular man, when I was again hesitant to even dare compare what I was going through to his trials, he stopped me quite abruptly and said something I will never, ever forget.

    “There’s just no point comparing pain,” he said. “Everybody’s got pain. Just cause I lost my leg doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt when that bastard stabbed your toe, that it didn’t hurt when they chopped it off. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt when your headaches make you pass out. Sure as hell doesn’t mean that what you’re going through isn’t hard, that it doesn’t suck, that you don’t have every right to wish it hadn’t happened. What happened to me doesn’t change what happened to you. Pain is pain, no matter who it happens to, and it’s always going to be hard, even if someone, somewhere has it ‘worse’. You still have it worse than someone else! My pain is my pain, your pain is yours. Trying to dismiss it, bury it, ignore it, sure isn’t going to make it any different. Trying to make yourself feel bad for hurting, just cause someone else hurts too, doesn’t make much sense to me. Own it, it’s yours, and don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re a sissy, or that what you’ve gone through is in any way insignificant. It hurts to you and that’s all that matters.”

    I wish I could tell that man just how much that meant to me. What it still means to me. I’ve tried to apply that ever since, even as my health has gotten worse and my pain has gotten more constant and unbearable. I’ve even ended up repeating it to others. When people ask me about Dercum’s Disease, their first reaction is almost always to say that they feel guilty for thinking that they had it so bad when they were suffering from something they think of as relatively insignificant. Whenever I hear that, I hear that man’s words echoing through my head and they inevitably come out of my mouth.

    Because it’s true. He was right. Pain is pain, there’s just no point in feeling guilty for hurting just because someone might have it worse off than you. Now, of course, if you’re just being a drama queen and are in need of a little perspective, that’s different. But pain isn’t going to go away just by feeling guilty for feeling it.

    All those memories came rushing back listening to Dean Kamen talk about his experiences with the soldiers. It warmed my heart to hear that people like him are working with the military to make things better for our soldiers. They truly deserve the world. I am so very grateful to all of those men and women in uniform who struggle every day in anonymity, dedicating – and sometimes even sacrificing – their entire lives, just to make ours better.

    To everyone currently serving in the United States military, to everyone who has served in the past, and to my wise nameless friend, thank you.