When Pain Goes Away

For the past three days, Richard has had a smirk on his face. In general, he is a gentle soul, compassionate beyond the point where most people would be showing impatience, usually able to leap over fear and ego in a single bound. He does show moderate smugness -- especially when he is proven right about the time it takes to get to the airport during rush hour. But he rarely smirks.

This current smirk, is a combination of "I told you so" and "I am happy for you, and us." It's a smirk that follows the ending of a pain episode.

He knew, based on many similar episodes of past pain experiences, that getting to the right medication titration would eliminate the pain. I only knew the anxiety of all the untested "what ifs." What if this time is different? What if something else is wrong? What if it takes months or years, again? What if I can't work or write? What if we run out of rice cakes and almond butter (funnily the only thing I can eat when I have pain)?

He goes to Whole Foods and comes back with shopping bags overflowing with rice cakes and almond butter and reminds me, again, that this pain will stop. And it does.

The smirk of love.