Silent

So,

to let you know a little more about me,

your new / future favorite author,

I have been plagued with

Rheumatoid Arthritis

for a few years now.

I am a Spirit-filled,

Bible-believing

Christian,

and I know that this disease is

trespassing in my body,

it has been evicted and

it must leave.

Til that event takes place,

I maintain my faith

– some days boldly so,

some days not so much –

and hold to confidence that I will,

one day,

not experience this

anymore.

Or ever again.

I was

officially diagnosed

in 2010,

but the RA trail of evidence

goes back several years.

I’ll see a photo,

or think of an incident,

and realize,

yeah,

that was part of it

even then.

My first cognitive awareness,

sometime in 2008,

is vivid:

I could no longer open the jar of salsa.

Same brand I always bought,

but for

some reason,

it wouldn’t open.

I used a jar gripper.

I banged on the lid

with the handle of a butter knife.

I tried every trick I knew.

But I couldn’t make it open.

Other than cry,

I don’t know what I eventually did.

I don’t think I had anything

with salsa

for supper that night.

OK,

I don’t guess

I cried,

just chalked it up to

a stubborn jar.

But when

it happened repeatedly,

and not with salsa only,

I’m sure I cried.

I know I cried.

I was bewildered.

During this era,

five to ten years ago,

I was also experiencing

more and more pain.

By the time I was diagnosed,

I was taking two Aleves,

twice a day

– and I was

STILL hurting!

Badly.

I had to sleep

OH, so carefully,

and if I moved in the night,

it woke me up,

and I had to adjust

OH, so precisely.

I normally sleep on my side,

and had to place

a cushion under my wrist to support it.

My pillow had to be

just so

under my neck

or I’d suffer major pain.

Laying on my back

was torture

to my knees

[a separate issue]

and to my feet and ankles.

The weight

of the covers

on my ankles

was excruciating.

And luxuriating

on my tummy?

No way!

Not the least of which was

just getting into that position.

My shoulders

were particularly affected, too.

I remember

wearing one of my favorite dresses to church,

was so pleased,

overjoyed,

that

I had actually got into it

– and got it zipped!

Quite an accomplishment!

Then I got home.

And I was ready to change.

Into shorts and a tee shirt.

I couldn’t get

out of my dress.

I was stuck.

I couldn’t get the zipper open.

I cried.

I just flopped

on the bed and

bawled my eyes out.

I eventually used tongs

– kitchen tongs –

to grip the little part of the zipper

so I could pull it far enough down

to wriggle

out of the dress.

My

lovely

lavender

dress.

I didn’t wear it

for a

LONG time

after that.

There was one Sunday,

in 2010,

I was having

a particularly “bad” day,

off the charts on the pain scale,

no position didn’t hurt.

I went to the ER.

I didn’t know

how to describe what I was feeling,

I told them

I “hurt all over.”

The young pup of a doctor

merely looked at the intake,

diagnosed me with having the flu.

Didn’t examine me,

didn’t ask me direct questions.

I felt like such a dummy.

Nothing but the flu,

and I went to the ER!

Only later,

when I was home,

did I realize I clearly

did not have the flu.

I’ve had the flu before

and that was NOT it.

S.M.H.

I will say that

the fatigue and weakness

do feel like the flu

minus the vomiting, etc.

The malaise of no energy,

the struggle just

to walk to the bathroom,

or to the kitchen,

yeah,

I get that a lot.

Not as much as I used to,

but when it hits –

it

just

SUCKS.

Little by little,

more of what I had taken for granted,

turning shower knobs,

opening a Coke

[I had to adapt to use pliers for that]

lifting ANYthing

– suddenly I was limited in activities

that I once took for granted.

I’m told that RA is

an auto-immune issue,

that my own immune system over acts,

and basically attacks itself.

Sorta,

or something like that.

In the spiritual aspect,

I’ve been told that

it’s an issue of forgiveness.

Well,

per Matthew 5:43-48

[ … love your enemies,

bless those who curse you,

do good to those who hate you,

and pray for those

who spitefully use you

and persecute you … ]

I really haven’t had much of

an issue with forgiveness.

I forgive readily,

and rather easily.

It was pointed out to me,

two years ago

[remember that Monique Law?]

that in forgiving

I had to include myself.

As in,

forgive ME!!!!!

THAT,

I had to work on a bit.

And,

I dare say,

I have accomplished.

It is,

of course,

an ongoing activity.

As for the overactive immune system,

again I can attach it to my subconscious.

Remember the “invisiblet?”

The girl who “wasn’t good enough?”

Yeah,

I felt I had to do over and above,

more than average,

just to maybe be close to average.

No way did I think I’d ever shine…..

Well,

apparently it translated to my physiology,

i.e. my immune system

following my psychological pattern.

Yea for that!

Let me interject here

the Saga of my Knees.

I was born with

some sort of abnormality.

The tendon was attached in the wrong place for one thing,

and both kneecaps are smaller than normal.

[or so I’ve been told]

As an adolescent,

my knees began to give me more and more trouble,

fluid building up significantly.

I remember vaguely

[blocked memories!]

having them drained more than once!

When I was in high school,

I ripped the tiny little muscle

that attaches the kneecap to the thigh muscle

OFF

of the kneecap.

You may remember hearing the scream,

summer of 1975.

My mom called the doctor of course,

he told her to give me two aspirin

[pre N-saids]

and call him in the morning.

Literally.

There was nothing to be done for it

except manage the pain;

the muscle reattached itself.

As the doctor knew it would.

This generated,

however,

follow up visits,

and further examination of my knees.

At which time

the misaligned tendon issue was discovered.

Surgery was scheduled,

and on my spring break of my junior year in high school,

I went under the knife.

Remember the dark ages?

There was no laser surgery.

To this day I have a

7 inch scar

on my right knee.

And three staples

holding the tendon where it was supposed to be.

Well,

I don’t guess the staples are actually

doing anything anymore,

the tendon has

taken up residence in the new place,

and has grown quite attached.

[my blog, my puns!]

The staples do,

however,

serve to deny me an MRI

Something about

metal and magnetic resonance.

The surgery,

while correcting one problem,

did not wholly fix my knee.

[the doctor told us I would likely need further surgery]

The kneecap still tracks wrong

which causes the cartilage to crack.

And after so many years,

my knees

don’t work

like knees are supposed to.

Actually,

I don’t guess they ever did.

Which means,

I have literally never taken a step correctly…

it’s ok,

I’m used to it

– wait!

I take that back!

I am NOT used to it,

well I was,

but I won’t put up with it anymore!

This,

too,

is under the healing covenant.

And I will be able to function

without the struggle and difficulty

I’ve always known.

Verily,

The healing.

I can,

and am,

doing more than previously.

Here endeth the Knee Saga.

Was supposed to be

just a sidebar,

but took on its own course.

As most of my writing does.

I entitled this post,

Silent,

because Rheumatoid Arthritis is one of the

“silent” diseases.

Unless you look specifically

at my hand,

you can’t tell by looking at me that

I have any condition or disease at all.

It rages underneath,

in silent,

invisible torture.

It plagues me

in the guise of fatigue and weariness,

weakness.

It interrupts my sleep,

and interrupts my waking.

This disease is a thief –

not so unlike an enemy who

roars like a lion,

seeking whom he may destroy.

This disease,

and all its ilk,

are but tools in his hand to do just that.

Destroy.

Years robbed from me,

years of enjoying life as the gift it is,

years of denying myself

the delight and pleasure

of going and doing,

because I’m too tired.

I get more tired more quickly,

and take longer to recoup than normal.

At its worst,

it has taken up to 3 days

of couch time,

utter “veg” time

to recover.

And it’s not just from pushing myself too hard

physically

that might bring on a bout of this malaise.

Sometimes

it’s something I’ve eaten

[sodium is a nasty culprit in this]

or waiting too long to eat.

Stress is a trigger.

[As it is to most health issues.]

Ironic that at this writing,

I was up much later than [my] norm last night,

and yet,

I’ve had quite the productive day!

[right up until I waited too long to eat….. ]

Sister diseases include

fibromyalgia and migraine,

lupus and Crohn’s and PTSD,

anxiety and bipolar and depression,

diabetes, epilepsy, autism

– the list is not so short.

All of these bear invisible symptoms.

Lurking in the halls

of our bodies,

our organs.

Beating us up from the inside out.

I was diagnosed

almost four years ago,

and have been on treatment,

aka meds,

to treat the symptoms since that time.

I’m told there is no cure,

no reversing the damage already done.

For that,

I’m depending,

expecting,

anticipating

the miracle healing power of Papa God.

He has not told me

to forego what treatment

is available.

Yeah,

I’d love this to be gone

RIGHT NOW.

But I trust Him,

I trust His heart for me.

And until the miracle manifests,

He has made provision

in the form of treatment.

Methotrexate,

I learned early on,

is a chemo treatment.

That rattled me,

freaked me out.

Chemo.

Of course,

what I take is

tiny dose compared to cancer treatment.

But it’s chemo.

It wasn’t enough.

I also take Humira.

You know,

the injectable stuff.

Gold in a syringe.

It ain’t cheap.

And yeah,

I had to learn to give myself the injection.

Every two weeks.

The first 4 or 5 times

I was shaking like a leaf.

Which is not a good thing

when you’re jabbing yourself with a needle.

I held my breath.

I read the instructions

oh-so-carefully

every time.

Til that one time,

I forgot and I was running late.

I didn’t have time for

the cute little ice pack

to numb my belly

[where I inject the medicine.]

I didn’t have time

to hold my breath and

re-re-read the instruction.

I took a breath,

and did it.

Been a piece o’ cake ever since.

Of course,

I await,

eagerly,

the day I no longer have to take any medication.

Because I no longer

have the disease.

Because my miracle

has manifested.

Do I believe

God struck me with this monster?

No.

A thousand times

NO!

That is not His modus operandi.

He does not need,

nor does He have

any reason

or desire

to strike us with horrid curses.

[curses that happen,

we bring on ourselves

– but that’s for another writing]

His perfect will is for us

to be blessed,

to walk in communion with Him.

He did not do this to me,

but He certainly is using it to teach me.

To teach me to take better care of myself.

To teach me to allow myself to rest when I need to.

To teach me to say no sometimes.

And to teach me to be okay saying no sometimes.

Yeah,

that’s a hard one for me.

It’s all part of loving me.

You know,

cause He does.

Love me,

I mean.

Oh,

and He is using it

to teach me to listen to Him

more closely,

more intimately.

To hear His voice in the midst of this trial.

And to trust Him in it.

So,

what’s the point of this week’s post?

Awareness?

Yes, somewhat.

A little more information about me,

about who I am.

About my journey,

my identity.

And yeah,

a shout out to

all who suffer

from any of the aforementioned

or any other silent

and invisible diseases.

YOU ROCK!

PS – It’s Wednesday, not quite 2:00 even, and I’m writing it already!!

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