We talked about her pain. An old pain from a ulnar fracture when she was ten. The new pain in her belly from pancreatic cancer. Pains in-between. Small heaps of pain, if she separated them into categories: physical, emotional, existential. But they couldn’t really be separated. Blinding migraines, suddenly returned. Her first born, a crib death. Knowing she would die before her oldest child completes high school. Regrets about not taking care of her father when he was dying. An old shoulder injury. Estrangement. Anger. Fear. Putting these pains together, they became a mountain of pain, and she cried. Frankly, I did too. We cried. Shared some silence. Then I asked if she wanted me to increase her pain medications. Yes, without hesitation, yes. I wondered, Why do you always tell the nurses you are not having pain, when they ask? She said, it makes me feel like a loser to admit it. It seemed like a funny answer. We laughed.