Something Was Missing When I Woke Up This Morning

I’d love to say I’ll never find it again, but I know I will

Photo by Maria on Unsplash

I woke up this morning the way I wake up most mornings. I rolled over with the intention of going back to sleep, but the dog realized I was awake. She hopped down into the floor and came to lay her chin on the edge of the bed, staring at me with eyes that said, “Mom, I need to pee.”

Then, I realized I needed to pee. Though it wasn’t yet 5am, it was close enough, and I knew that meant we were up for the day.

Azula and I headed down the stairs. Me, clumsy and groggy, careful not to miss a step in my pre-coffee stupor. Her, all puppy energy, eager and racing to beat me downstairs.

I let her out and watch carefully to make sure the groundhog that’s taken up residency next door isn’t out and about. Same old, same old. She finishes her business and heads back towards me at a run, eager for breakfast.

It isn’t until I’m pouring coffee beans into the grider that I realize what’s missing. For the first time in two and a half weeks, I woke up without a headache this morning. Not even the dullest whisper of pain, the faintest wiff of tightness.

I pause for a moment to let this sink in. It’s strange, really, how the absence of pain takes longer to notice than the hurting does.

It’s been nearly three years since my chronic pain disorder began, nearly two since we landed on a treatment plan that mostly works, most of the time. Now, I go the better part of three months at a time without pain days, as long as I’m relatively careful about triggers. These pain free weeks are a gift compared with those early days when the pain was a constant unknown. I try never to forget this fact, the sheer miracle of it.

And yet, I’m always a bit taken aback when the pain returns. The weeks and months I go without it makes me imagine I might be cured, every time. When the pain comes back, it’s a bit like the beginning all over again. I have to relearn gentleness, care with this body that has suddenly become a vehicle for the hurt.

During the pain weeks, that old metaphor about spoons becomes my mantra, and I dole them out with a cautious frustration. I don’t like…