In the silence I think about the pain. I think about the days and days, so many days, since it wasn’t there. One day it wasn’t there, and then it was. And is. Still. Around about 300 days. 300 days of pain in varying amounts. Some ups. Some downs. But always pain to some degree. And there is nothing I can do. Take drugs. Do exercises. Hope. But there is nothing I can do to make it stop right now. There is no magic pill, no doctor will fix me (not bad enough to fix). Nothing I can do. Nothing. Is this who I am now? This person in pain? This person who has to find a ‘special’ chair in meetings because the posh chairs hurt? This person who limps along on bad days? Who moves uphill at snails pace, and wonky-walks back down again? Who takes more drugs than I would have ever imagined? Who is still in pain, despite them? And people offer sympathy (so gratefully received) and ideas of swimming and yoga and osteopaths. But what I need is healing of my heart. Adjustment of my mind. Not activities or manipulations (that cost too much). I need to cease this fruitless railing at the pain. Is that giving in, or just accepting the truth? 300 days of pain. 300 days of moaning. And wondering still, why me?