The prednisone party is over.

My doctor is weaning me off.

I cut a grilled cheese last night for Gabriel and thought I might have broken my wrist. Every joint has announced their renewed commitment to making my life a living heck.

As I crawl back into this aching pain suit affectionately known as my body, I have to wonder if it is better to have lived and lost, than ever to have lived at all. Of course, the answer is Yes. How else would we have rearranged the family room and hung fresh drapes? Entertained company? Taken the kids to the zoo or made my way to Bunko on Friday? (That crazy post is pending.) How else would I have realized that I wasn’t just a big, fat, old, lazy, crank?

I woke every morning with zeal and appreciation while I was doped up. I appreciated how glorious it was to feel healthy and I appreciated what a struggle it was to feel like a 90-year-old. It was a good experience, however short-lived.

I see the Rheumatologist, on October 10, which seems like a mini-millennium when measured in fruit slices and shampoo squeezes. We have taken Phoebe off formula and she is drinking real milk now—one month early, but we think she’ll survive. If I never have to shake another Tupperware container full of formula, we’ll all be the better for it.

Now that my super-human strength is fading, I can only hope that my mind stays relatively sharp. Lord knows, I am not getting out of a jam with this bag of bones in my corner. I will have to depend on my wits or frankly, carry a lot more cash.