This is another entry from A Page to Forget, written over a decade ago. 

The word companion might seem like a negative term in this context, but it’s not—not entirely. I’m referring to pain. Everyone experiences it at some point, and it’s been a part of my life too. 

From a young age, I was nearsighted, often bending over books, which took a toll on my neck and back. But when I was younger, I could manage the strain. 

Things changed around 2007, just a year before my retinal detachment. I began experiencing sharp, shooting pain in the upper corner of my left eye—the same eye that would later undergo surgery. I became known as the “red-eyed man.” Even before the surgery, the pain was intense. As I lay on the operating table, I mentioned it to the doctors, and in addition to the usual anesthetics, they gave me three or four injections directly at the pain site. Despite this, I felt pain throughout the two-and-a-half-hour procedure, and it lingered long after. To this day, it occasionally flares up. 

Navigating daily life became challenging. With only a narrow field of vision, I have to constantly move my neck and back to scan my surroundings, creating additional strain. This aggravates my back pain, making it a constant presence in my life—a true companion. 

What could I do? Cry? Complain endlessly? I realized pain is subjective—it can’t be measured or compared. It’s a signal, not the disease itself. The more attention I gave it, the more intense it seemed. So, I decided to befriend it. When the pain became unbearable, I would say, “Ah, you’ve come to remind me of something. Here, take this medicine and settle down for a while.” 

By making peace with my pain, I found a way to live with it, rather than fight against it. And life became just a little easier. 

There’s another companion I’ll talk about next. 

Contd. 347. Tipper Slippers