“How are the headaches?” she asks me.
“Fine, normal,” I never know how to talk about them. My views are so skewed on them, and there’s a million ways to answer this question. I don’t know what she wants so I give her the medical answer. “Better with the cymbalta. Not as often, less severe.”
She smiles, “good.” She looks at me for a moment, a medical critical eye, evaluating. “You look better, more you.”
It’s a big improvement from last time, I’m not balling my eyes out, at my last straw in a public place. She’s not cracking jokes comparing complete elation to complete desperation.
I don’t know how much more I can look like me when the headaches are such a big part of me. If anything I should look less like me, losing a part of me. That’s the irony of chronic illness I guess.