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Learning To Live

Weak. Stiff. Hot. Pain. These are some of the words I’d use to describe my arthritis. If you had told me seven years ago that I would be diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis within a year, I think I would have looked at you like you were off your rocker. I was a child in my last year of Junior High when I was diagnosed. I knew my hands hurt, but it certainly wasn’t something I was too worried about. I was more concerned about the way my index finger looked. The middle joint almost looked like it has been reversed, so it was sunken down into my skin. My finger clicked when I bent it. My friends thought it was “kinda gross.”

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Letters From The Breach

I’d expected a solid I-don’t-know because the only thing certain about my experience of autoimmune arthritis has been its uncertainty. We might be able to get you a remission. This drug is promising. We expect to slow your joint damage. We’re unsure exactly what kind of arthritis you have, we just know it’s autoimmune. If this doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. Might-promising-expect-unsure-if. A bouquet of guesses ribboned with equivocation. My daily experience of this disease has been just as muddling. Day to day, the symptoms vary. I can’t tell you on a Monday if I’ll be up for a Wednesday night outing.

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