Last Labor Day weekend, I woke up thinking I'd sprained my pinky finger in my sleep. It hurt, but I didn't think on it beyond, "ouch" and went about the business of having fun with my visiting mom.
A few weeks later and the "sprain" hadn't improved. A Google search after that, and I was certain I had nerve damage. Off to the doctor and the start of a four month odyssey of tests and uncertainty that ended with a diagnosis of psoriatic arthritis (PA).
I've suffered from psoriasis since the age of twenty, after a perfect storm of Mono, Strep throat, and antibiotics decimated my immune system. Psoriasis isn't fun. Nope. It's a flaky nuisance designed specifically to make the sufferer feel about as confident in their body as an underweight, molting, three-legged rabbit with tics and a carrot allergy.
But, you know, one puts on one's big girl panties and muddles through. In the last few years, I'd finally come to a workable detente and figured I had this particular hassle figured out. Creams, lotions, potions, and patience.
Ha, ha, surprise!
Now, it's not like I think my self-congratulatory, "you've got this, girl" pats on the back triggered some weird-ass karma, but it is beyond frustrating that I'd just settled into a maintenance routine when the PA decided to take roost.
The good news, of course, is that PA is treatable.
Sunday, July 17 marked the three month anniversary of my first dose of methotrexate. I take 8 tiny pills once a week and a dose of folic acid daily. My skin has improved exponentially (good-bye sucker flakes!). The joint tenderness that had, between onset of the pain to first dose, spread throughout my entire body, has decreased to the point where I no longer move like the Tin Man in need of a lube job.
Of course, the drug makes booze a bit of a danger. Stupid liver incompatibility. As a result, I haven't had a drink since April 15. Turns out, I miss the social aspects of alcohol consumption a lot, but the physical drag that can come from drinking just a bit too much, just a little too often, not at all.
Another BIG win since clearing away the fog of pain and lethargy of a regular drink after work: I've spent a lot more time on my writing. The result: I've finished a round of revisions on my WIP, resubmitted to the editor who requested them, and dug into book two of the series.
I'm not always sure about what's causal vs. correlated, but the story I tell myself each day is that I'm functioning better because I'm treating myself well.
Seems like a positive "happily for now" place to end things, so I'll sign with this question: how do you handle the sideswipes your body slams you with as you age? Emotionally, logistically, or other...