(PolyMyalgia Rheumatica)

I found her in the laundry room, her back to me.
I could tell something was wrong.
I asked, “How are you feeling?”
She replied, “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
As she turned to me, I could see she was crying.
She does not cry easily.

I saw her in the garden, trying to turn over one of the new beds.
I could tell by her body language she was not doing well.
I asked, “Would you like some help?”
She replied, “I would love it!”
And she wiped a tear from her eye.
She does not cry easily.

I rolled over in bed and put my arms around her
I could tell she was not right.
I asked in a whisper, “May I rub your back?”  
She replied, “That would be lovely”,
And she sniffed.
She does not cry easily.

I walked in when she was reading this poem.
I could see she was touched.
I asked, “Hope you didn’t mind my writing this?”
She replied, “I didn’t think you noticed.”
As her eyes filled with tears, we hugged.
She does not cry easily.

She lives with this painful disease.
It keeps her from living a full life.
She does as well as she can do.
It saps her strength and limits her day.
Sometimes, it makes her cry,
And she does not cry easily.