With age, I learned to conduct my own physicals. Daily temperature checks, so I can judge if I have a fever, which might indicate my body is suffering from some kind of infection. Nightly inspections, standing naked before a full-length mirror, where I study every inch of my skin for bruises and lacerations, then inspect my joints for signs of swelling or stress. Next, on to my eyes: A red eyeball is an angry eyeball. Checking my ears: Blood in the ear cavity could indicate a ruptured eardrum and/or possible head injury. Then my nasal passageways, the inside of my mouth, teeth, tongue and gums.

My body is a vessel, a useful item, to be inspected, managed and tended. I have to take extra care of it because the lack of molecular channels to direct electrical impulses from pain-sensing nerves to my brain means my body can’t take care of itself. Someone with my condition can’t afford to trust what I feel. Instead, I need to go by what I can see, hear, taste and smell.

Mind over matter, my geneticist father would tell me time and time again. Just a simple exercise of mind over matter.

When I made it to thirteen without succumbing to heatstroke, internal infection or basic carelessness, my father took his research one step further. If there were a couple hundred kids in the world born with this condition, then there were about forty still alive to contemplate adulthood. Studying these cases revealed further weaknesses of a life spent never experiencing physical discomfort. For example, many subjects reported difficulty empathizing with others, stunted emotional growth and limited social skills.

My adoptive father immediately ordered up a full psychological assessment. Could I sense pain in others? Recognize signs of distress on a stranger’s face? Respond appropriately to the suffering of my fellow human beings?

After all, if you never cry over a paper cut, will you weep when your sixteen-year-old best friend suddenly severs all ties, calling you a freak? If you can walk miles on a shattered knee, will your heart constrict when at twenty-three your birth sister finds you again, and the letter is postmarked from the Department of Corrections?

If you’ve never experienced one second of genuine agony, can you honestly comprehend your adoptive father’s last dying breath, as he clutches your hand and gasps:

“Adeline. This. Is. Pain.”

Standing alone at his funeral, I thought I understood.

But being my father’s daughter, I also realized I could never truly be certain. So I did as he trained me to do. I enrolled in a top-notch doctorate program where I studied, I tested, I researched.

I made pain my business.

A useful specialty for more reasons than one.

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