I recently learned something shocking about my family–I alluded to bits and pieces of it last week in one of my posts about gratitude, although it’s more complicated than I knew at the time…  It got me thinking about how one handles troubling news.

When I first was told I had arthritis, I didn’t believe it.  I think I was probably told that I have arthritis five times before I actually let it in.  Hearing that you’re sick is shocking.  It’s troubling to hear that you’ll be sick for the rest of your life.  More than that though, it changes how you view yourself, in your own mind, in the context of your family and relationships; and it also can change how your family and friends see you.   But initially, it’s just shocking.

When you’re shocked or frightened, your mind immediately goes to fight or flight.  For some people, that means a sort of frantic problem solving mode - how can I fix this?  What did I do wrong?

You just have to breathe.  Breathe and remind yourself that you’ve been okay until now, you’ll be okay tomorrow.  You’re allowed to be upset, disappointed, frustrated, etc.  Feel what you’re feeling but keep a progressive perspective.  Remember you’ll be ok.  Keep telling yourself over and over and over again, until you believe it.

What else can you do?

There I said it. I don’t want to take them. Not because of any side effects or anything like that. But just because I don’t want to. Every time I look down at my handful of pills (at night I swallow around 10 pills in a myriad of colors, shapes and sizes) I feel like throwing them at the wall. Because that isn’t my life. I’m not a pill taker. I’m not sick. I’m in my 20s. I’m healthy and happy and carefree.

Only. I’m not. Yes, I’m in my 20s. But I’m not healthy. And when I don’t take my meds I’m usually not that happy and definitely not carefree. And I do take pills. Lots of pills.

S and I have talked about this a lot over the past year of our friendship–how there is a psychological block or disconnect–that maybe, just maybe, this time we won’t need our meds. That today our bodies will remember they are young and virile. That if we ignore our symptoms, pretend they doesn’t exits, that they will cease to. Mind over matter. Right?

Unfortunately, hell hath no fury like a body deprived of it’s meds.

And so, as I sit here, my stomach roiling in acid, my bones feeling as if they are going to implode and my brain foggy like London, I tell myself that today I’ll remember to take my pills. Today I’ll pour the Gastrocrom into a glass of water and drink it all. And in a few days I’ll be feeling better.

That is if I don’t throw them at the wall first.

So you have this disease.  That sucks.  You’re going to have it forever?! That really sucks.  Now what do you do?

Do you spend a bunch of time feeling sorry for yourself?  Probably.

I didn’t realize this at the time, but I was going through the Stages of Grief, mourning for the loss of my clean bill of health.  As far as I was concerned, I was never going to be completely healthy, and after:

1. denying I was in pain, and
2. getting angry at my body and about my disease.
3. I bargained and tried to compromise on my physical needs, hoping to regain control over my body.
4. Depression hit me like the titanic hit an iceberg.  I didn’t sink, but there were times I wanted to.
5. Accepting reality became all that was left.

When acceptance is the only option, it’s time to figure out how to move forward. Right?

Trouble is you need the acceptance of your loved ones too.   I went through an extremely hurtful situation with my ex (N).  I have to give myself my weekly Enbrel injection–something I loath doing anyway–and N asked me not to do it in front of him because it wasn’t a very sexy thing… Hmm… No shit!  But what a dick thing to say out loud.

I’m seeing someone new now, and I’ve avoided giving myself injections in front of him.  I’ve hid in the bathroom so he wouldn’t see.  I’ve intentionally changed the day of my injection so he wouldn’t be around.  Last week, I had pushed my injection off a few days, in part to avoid embarrassment, in part because I hate the damn thing.  I was starting to feel the fact that I hadn’t taken it, and broke down and gave myself the shot right in front of him.  He rested a hand on my back while I practiced my yogic breathing–inhaling deeply, exhaling and pushing the injection further in; inhaling, exhaling and pushing more.  When I was done, he pulled me into his arms.

I didn’t know someone could be so accepting of me.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that.  I cried.  I actually cried.

I still haven’t fully accepted it myself, but it’s about time I learn how.

When I was in high school, I dated a boy we’ll call John here.  We talked of our goals and our future and we also shared our fears.  He admitted to me that he was afraid of getting old.   I remember at the time, I thought it was strange to fear aging.  I wanted to be older.  With age came so many things I wanted: freedom, responsibility, control and that all wisdom.

Yesterday I was walking around the city on swollen feet and I almost cried.  In a one block span, I passed an elderly man hobbling by on a walker, a woman with feet so fat and swollen that they couldn’t fit in her old people sneakers, and a hunchbacked man walking his old dog.  I was immediately terrified that I’m going to be in pain and deformed forever.

My doc always tells me my joints look good.  But it’s scary to think about loss of mobility and other physical abilities–when my grandmother finally passed she couldn’t hold anything in her hands.   If it hurts to walk now, what will it be like in ten years?  When I’m 40? What about 65?

I’m pretty comfort-conscious.  But I never want to bound to those hideous puffy shoes because I have a disease.  I don’t want to be making decisions based on physical limitations I might have.  Then again, what else can you do?