Can’t Complain

Mrs. Hoffman drove without cartilage in her knees.

Bubby couldn’t draw a full breath after walking a full block.

Zaidy was in so much pain he didn’t notice new ones – his doctor had to be the one to tell him.

None of them complained.

I was under doctor’s orders to stay immobile unless absolutely necessary, on decreasing amounts of pain medication, and with a head still clearing from the anesthesia. And everyone wanted to know how I was doing. My responses varied from “Great!” to “a-ok.”

“You know you can complain?” a friend asked, after watching me wince in pain as I shifted my weight from the couch on which I was lounging.

I could walk.

I could breath.

I could tell when I was in pain.

I had no complaints.

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