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Levels of Pain

Into Levels of Pain I poured a question that followed me and my dad through similar dark corridors. “On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” I heard it first after my motorcycle accident on May 29, 2023, when bone and metal and sleepless nights taught me how time can stretch and warp. I heard it again in the final months of my father’s life, beside his hospital bed, beneath the hum of machines and the fragile rhythm of borrowed breath. Somewhere between those two beds, that clinical question turned into song. A ladder. A spell. A language written in breath and bone. This song is a letter to my dad, Micu, who passed away on December 26, 2025. It is also a way of holding memory against the tide of forgetting. I keep returning to him in fragments and images. A river in Romania, the River Lăpuș, where as a child I called for him and he was there, blood on his legs from the stones he threw himself onto to reach me. A Christmas morning photo behind an oxygen mask, taken on his last day, his warm hands still trying to shape a heart that looked more like an infinity symbol, as if he already knew love does not end where the body ends. And then, in a strange turning of the wheel, I found myself on a ski hill with my nine year old daughter, Clara, my own foot burning inside a ski boot that never truly fit again. And she, with tears in her eyes and no drama in her voice, became the stronger one. She told me we could go home. That she did not like seeing me in pain. That we could build something together instead. In that moment, the story braided itself again. Father and son. Father and daughter. Pain and tenderness. The same thread passing through generations, changing form but keeping its meaning. Levels of Pain lives at the threshold where suffering becomes memory and memory becomes a kind of compass. It is not only about pain. It is about endurance. About the love that refuses to step away. About the breath you fight for, and the breath you give back. It is about the moment fear leaves, and something quiet and clear takes its place. If you are carrying someone you love, if grief has made a home in your ribs, I hope this meets you gently. Blog post: https://klic.cc/levels-of-pain/ Written: 2026-02-02 Video: 2026-02-05