Picture it: 3:30 a.m. on a cold February morning in 2018. The pain of my new artificial knee had reached a nine. Indeed, my six inch-long centipede of a scar felt like it would rip open from my agony. So I quietly sobbed alone in my bed, not wanting to disturb anyone. My sleepy husband padded down the hallway. He heard me crying and systematically proceeded to add ice to the machine designed to freeze out my pain. In that moment, my adult self experienced from the receiving end something new first-hand. What was it? Razor-Edged, Sacrificial “True” Love. As a young 13-year-old girl, wondering and dreaming about what love…