By Crystal Lindell, PNN Columnist 

When you have chronic pain, love stories can be triggering.  

For a while, I had to Facebook mute everyone on my friend’s list who posted about their relationships. I hated them so much for being happy. And I hated myself for hating them. 

My last boyfriend and I started dating before I had debilitating chronic pain. As my health declined, so did our relationship.  

I knew it was the beginning of the end when he finally said the unsayable out loud to me on the phone.  

“Look. I just don’t want to have to take care of you for the rest of your life.” 

The words struck me like a punch in the eyes. I honestly hadn’t seen it coming. Worst still, we dated for three more months because I didn’t have the strength to leave him.  

Those words left sprawling scars. And in 2017, when I started to suspect that I might have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome — a painful genetic condition that has no cure — I burned them into my brain like a prophecy. 

The idea of never getting better was now knotted up with the idea that no man would ever love me. Somehow, I convinced myself that I deserved such a fate.  

I mean, I can’t expect a guy to take care of me for THE REST OF HIS LIFE. It’s rude. It’s cruel. Men deserve more from their lives than my doctors’ appointments, ER trips and medical debt. My ex was right.  

I resigned myself to a lifetime of horrible Tinder dates and one-night stands. After all, what right did I have to expect anything more than that?  

Ok, yes, this is the part where I’m going to tell you I met the love of my life. I know. Gross. 

If you want to stop reading now because you hate love, I completely understand. But I want to tell you something real quick before you go — it is possible to find love when you have chronic pain.  

I found him. He found me.  

We found each other.  

We met at a local political meeting. I went up to a local candidate to ask about opioid access for pain patients, he overheard me and asked for my number.  

Hydrocodone literally brought us together.

Yes, we both have chronic pain. I think that’s the secret. 

People will tell you that two sick people shouldn’t date, but in my experience, it makes for a much better match than one sick person and one healthy person.  

There’s a uniquely humbling empathy you develop when your body falls apart. It’s the kind of empathy that only comes when you lose your childhood sense of invulnerability.  

The truth of it is, like most stories involving real people, our fairy tale wasn’t a straight line.  

While he asked for my number in August of 2017, we went on one date and then mostly lost track of each other. Other than some social media comments and a couple run-ins at local political events, I didn’t really hear from him again until March 2018. 

That’s when he sent me a Facebook message. “Hey, are you going to that debate at the library tonight?” 

He sent it on March 15, 2018. I read it right after I got home from the doctor. The same day that I was officially diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.  

I went to the debate. He did too. 

The next day he sent me a text, “Apologies if this is a bit direct, but you’d been saying that you felt run-down and sick last time I saw you. But you looked freaking great yesterday.” 

A couple days later he took me to a movie. It was well past midnight as we left the theater, so he suggested a little gyro stand known for its authentic food and 2 a.m. closing time. 

As we sat in the car, getting Tzatziki sauce all over our faces, I told him the story of my ex. How he had hated my health issues. How he had told me he didn’t want to have to take care of me for the rest of my life. How much those words screwed with my head. 

About a week later he came over with a Blu-ray copy of “Thor: Ragnarok,” ended up spending the night and we never looked back. Other than work trips we haven’t spent a night apart since.  

Almost three years later, we now share heated blankets, coordinate doctor appointments and deal with weather-induced pain flares together on the couch. 

He proposed recently. On Christmas morning. he put a ruby ring under the tree and then made sure I opened it last.  

As I unwrapped the large box meant to disguise the ring’s shape, he leaned over to give me a kiss, completely oblivious to my unwashed hair and lack of makeup. 

Then, he went silent.  

“Um, are you proposing?” I asked when I saw the ring.  

“Yes,” he said.  

“So, like, you’re cool with spending the rest of your life with me?” I asked.  

“Well, I was going to do that either way,” he said.  

A proposal. At home. In my pajamas. With nobody else around.  

Only a fellow chronic pain patient could understand the magic in that.  

“I do have one more question,” he said.  

“What?” 

“Are you sure you’re never going to get better? Because I don’t want to have to take care of you for the rest of your life,” he said.  

Then he burst out laughing, so proud of his joke.  

Well look at that. Those words have been reclaimed. Our love took them back.  

They don’t control me anymore. Now, they belong to me and my fiancé. 

Crystal Lindell is a journalist who lives in Illinois. After five years of unexplained rib pain, Crystal was finally diagnosed with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.