When Care Lacked Compassion: A Chronically Ill Experience of Layered Trauma

Written by: Sheri New for ravoke.com

I want to share this experience because it isn’t about a single injury. It’s about what happens to a chronically ill patient when trauma stacks — and care is technically adequate, but compassion is missing.

My injuries didn’t begin with one dramatic event. They unfolded in sequence, without my body ever having the chance to recover in between.

It started with a fall in the middle of the night. I landed hard on my right side and immediately recognized familiar signs: whiplash-type neck pain, a sprained hand, and injuries to my right knee and ankle. My balance was affected, my gait was off, and my body shifted into compensation mode. Living with chronic illness teaches you how to assess quickly, adapt, and keep going — often because we’ve learned that our pain is minimized and our needs are not always met with understanding.

Days later, I was involved in a car accident. From the outside, it may not have looked severe. But for a body already injured — and living with chronic illness — sudden deceleration matters. My joints didn’t rebound. My nervous system escalated. Muscle guarding spread through my neck, back, and torso. My already-injured ankle and knee made stability harder, increasing strain elsewhere. There was still no recovery window — only accumulation.

Then came the third injury: a fall in my yard. I struck the arm of a chair with my chest and left rib cage hard enough to break the chair. Imaging later confirmed fractures of my 6th, 7th, and 8th ribs on the left side, along with a bruised spleen beneath them.

Emergency imaging ruled out splenic rupture and internal bleeding. That distinction mattered — it meant I wasn’t facing a surgical emergency. But it did not mean the injury was minor. And it did not mean the pain would be simple, brief, or easy to recover from.

What mattered just as much — and what still stays with me — is that I was discharged from the hospital without being told that I had three fractured ribs and a bruised spleen. There was no conversation about the findings, no explanation of what had been injured, and no guidance about what my body would need in order to heal. I learned the reality of my injuries later, after I was already home, still trying to make sense of why my pain felt so deep and unmanageable.

What Should Have Happened

What should have happened was simple. I should have been told the results of my imaging before being discharged. I should have been informed that I had three fractured ribs and a bruised spleen, and given a clear explanation of what that meant for my body, my pain, and my recovery. I should have received guidance about activity restrictions, fall risk, breathing support, and warning signs to watch for — especially given my underlying conditions. Most importantly, my lived context as a chronically ill patient should have been considered. Compassionate care would have recognized that information is not optional, that understanding reduces fear, and that safety begins with being fully informed.

I also should not have had to advocate alone. Before I left the emergency department, I asked for a patient advocate three separate times, to three different people. At the time, my neurological system was in significant overload. I was injured, dysregulated, and struggling to process information. I needed someone to look at me, understand my state, and help bridge communication while decisions were being made. These requests occurred over approximately a four-hour window while I was still in the ER. To this date, I have not been contacted by anyone.

I want to be clear about something else. When I presented to the emergency department, I clearly stated what I needed. My requests were specific, appropriate, and lawful. They were focused on understanding my condition, managing pain and neurological overload, and having support to communicate effectively. Nothing I asked for was illegal, unreasonable, or outside the scope of patient care.

Requesting a patient advocate is a legal patient right, particularly when a patient is injured, neurologically overwhelmed, or unable to safely self-advocate.

When patients ask for advocacy in moments like this, it is often because they feel overwhelmed, unsafe, or unheard. That request itself should be understood as part of the clinical picture — not as an inconvenience to be ignored.

Layered Trauma and the Cost of Missed Compassion

What followed was layered pain. Sharp, breath-dependent pain from fractured ribs. Deep, constant pain from a bruised organ. Cervical and thoracic muscle guarding. Ongoing instability from a previously injured ankle and knee. Fatigue that felt systemic, not just physical. And beneath it all, a nervous system that never had the chance to settle.

For people living with chronic illness, pain does not stay neatly contained. Healing does not follow clean timelines. Inflammation amplifies everything. When care lacks compassion, these realities are often overlooked — or dismissed entirely.

I didn’t fail to heal.
My body wasn’t given the conditions it needed to do so.

When CRPS, EDS, and MCAS Fire at Once

When you live with CRPS, EDS, and MCAS, your body already operates closer to the edge of regulation than most people realize. These conditions don’t exist in separate boxes — they interact constantly, especially through the autonomic nervous system.

CRPS primes the nervous system to over-respond. Pain signals don’t just report injury — they amplify it, spread it, and prolong it. Trauma doesn’t stay local. The nervous system interprets repeated injury as ongoing threat.

EDS adds structural instability. Joints and connective tissue don’t absorb force efficiently, leading to compensation, muscle guarding, altered gait, and increased fall risk — all of which further stress the nervous system.

MCAS adds inflammation. Trauma activates mast cells, releasing mediators that increase pain, swelling, dizziness, fatigue, brain fog, and cardiovascular instability. Inflammation becomes systemic, not localized.

The autonomic nervous system is where all of this converges. Repeated trauma signals danger, keeping the body locked in fight-or-flight. This sympathetic dominance shows up as shallow breathing, muscle tension, dizziness, poor sleep, temperature and blood pressure instability, and pain that feels disproportionate to imaging findings.

This isn’t anxiety.
This isn’t deconditioning.
This is a nervous system doing exactly what it was designed to do — protect — without the ability to turn itself off.

I didn’t fail to recover.
My nervous system was never given the signal that it was safe to stand down.

Gentle Call to Action

If you recognize yourself in this story, please know that needing compassion does not make you weak — it makes you human. Chronic illness changes how bodies respond to injury, stress, and recovery.

I hope this story encourages patients to trust their instincts and encourages clinicians, caregivers, and loved ones to listen more closely. Compassion is not extra. It is part of the care.

Healing is not just about what happens to the body — it’s about how the body is treated along the way.

Series Note

This piece is part of an ongoing series documenting my lived experience as a chronically ill patient navigating layered trauma and systems of care. As I learn about patient advocacy organizations, patient rights, and support resources, I will continue to share them — not as endorsements, but as information — for others who may need support. At ravoke.com we embrace and support the voices of the people.