Getting my head in the game.

There is nothing more devastating than having your worst-case scenario come to fruition.

In my crazy mind, I sort of think that I have invented this whole Rheumatoid-thing to get attention or something nuts like that. If you are wondering how delusional I can be…brace yourself. I was raised on a steady diet of perverse responses to serious issues. And when a really big ugly seriously bad situation gets put on the table. I have half a mind to tell it to stop complaining and go back to bed just like I was told in my formative years.

Along with wholly dismissive and borderline abusive reactions to my human condition, I was also raised Catholic, so I not only doubted my own reality, I also felt tremendous guilt for actually having a reality which naturally paled in comparison to Jesus Christ. I think, I even believed I was a Judas for a time during puberty, for reasons beyond my comprehension at the tender age of 13.

This all leads back to my doctor’s appointment today.

I went to see my new rheumatologist. It was a long appointment and I wasn’t exactly prepared for the entire examination. I had to get all of my joints tested, which essentially means squeezed and pinched. I also had to have a tear test. This basically consists of having a pokey-paper stick inserted in your eye and hung delicately from your eyelid while you cry for five minutes.

I got queasy just from the thought of it and when the damn thing was in my eye, I felt faint. And for a brief moment, I thought that Phoebe might be behind this, but even she knows a whole five minutes of eyeball exploits falls deep into the dark gray area of human dignity in the Geneva Conventions.

The poor man actually thought I might be pregnant since I went ghostly white and swooned a bit. Nope. Not a baby causing this, just the freaking man with the eyeball poker.

After sending miserable pain jolts through my hands, feet and back, sticking instruments in my pupils to induce crying, and generally making me cold, which is a crime on a good day, I felt our first encounter was going badly. He then instructed me to get dressed for the hard news.

I return to my cozy sweater, and Doctor returns with a wad of prescription slips. I braced myself and he told me that I would begin with four prescriptions. Four! Yes, not one, not two, not three…but four! And here is the great part—they are all on different schedules. I have to take one with breakfast and one with dinner, one at night with no food, one in the morning with food, and the last dose is to be taken on Wednesday night without food, all six pills. This little baby has to be taken once a week only or you can end up in the hospital. These drugs are lethal, helpful, but potentially lethal. Of course, most drugs have that grave distinction, but you have to wonder about one that if taken daily will wipe you out.

And here is the topper to the regime—no more drinking. Truthfully, I don’t think the drinking will matter, as it seems I am going to be pretty damn sick for a while. Yeah, it sort of sucks, but only if you decide to recognize that you are really ill.

And when faced with the overwhelming medical response to my obviously make-believe disease, I decided, “No, thanks.” In order not to seem rude or dismissive of his extensive torture, I mean treatment, program, I asked him to explain what the goal of all of this. I needed to know why I would even entertain such a potentially life-altering plan of attack on my attention-seeking-stunt, as opposed to suffering through my current condition, which seemed to be improving rapidly (in my head).

Aside from being terrified, I am hard-wired to be goal oriented. I hoped to visualize the end result for all this prescribed misery. Morning sickness equals healthy baby. That is a trade-off that I can understand. I puke—I give birth. These things are seemingly unrelated, but in the context of pregnancy, it all evens out in the end.

So tell me…what the hell would be the point of all this poison? I can cope with the pain. I can roll with a few bad days. I didn’t see the point in making myself sick everyday, just to spare myself some aches and yawns. All my daily struggle had become a minor inconveniences as compared to hair loss, mouth sores, nausea, loss of appetite, blurred vision, ringing hears, vomiting, rash, chest palpitations, just to name a few.

The answer was crippling, actual bodily crippling. What!?! This was real? And the truth, made me take a deep breath and reconsider my options. I will be disabled, if I don’t confront this disease. I will lose my abilities, one tiny squeeze, pinch, flex, lift, knit and purl at a time. Eventually, I will be reduced to a person who would envy the woman sitting in that office and hoping she had created this whole scenario in order to get her husband to bring her coffee in bed.

I found my new and totally-all-consuming goal to be quite sobering—in more ways than one.

It seems that I didn’t concoct this disease and denial will not stem its progressive nature. I suppose it was a little arrogant to think that I was that creative or desperate for help with vacuuming. It was smug to think I could conjure up all the symptoms, and absolutely insane that I would call them up at the very times when I most wanted to be healthy. No, evidently my limitations go further than my body, I think my mind is suffering from a bit of swelling and degeneration as well.

I cried on the way home while I tried to absorb the shock of the impending drug therapy. While I want to tell my troubles to suck it up and go back to bed, I know that they are more determined than my imagination. When I got home and saw Gabriel and Phoebe, I knew that the goal was clear and sound.

(Not to be corny in terms of seeing the kids and having some inspiring revelation. But when you are in a doctor’s office full of the old and infirmed, it is surprisingly convincing to think, “I am not one of you, I feel great!” But a three-year-old will made you think twice about your perceived invincibility.)

I have to be honest though, my greatest motivator—fear. Not exactly the fear of the freak-show-like-knuckles and lumpy elbows, which in itself is motivating. No, it is a more violent outcome that I dread. I am afraid that Phoebe will take my eye for real, if I gamble with my health and risk losing my part in her future. My orbs have really taken a beating this year, I can’t stomach much more.

So, will I be prescribing to this hideous medical treatment? You better believe it.