Every time the pain takes a little vacation, I forget. The sleepless nights and the cries for Tramadol disappear. The little twinges don’t even faze me, and the need to know what slips back into my subconscious.

And then it comes back.

Suddenly, just doing homework seems daunting. I start to Google every possible disease, stretching so far as to consider ectopic pregnancy. A whole universe of information is at my fingertips, and I’ve grown so accustomed to getting the answers I want — an image gallery for a client, a synonym for the word “admonish”, the lyrics to a commercial jingle — and yet I can’t seem to find the answers that I need.

Everything I do is so slow. I halt, holding the wrist that feels like its bones are being ground together, or bending to touch the spot on my leg that feels like it’s being split open with an icepick.

I feel guilty for complaining, so I keep my mouth shut. I grimace. I bite down on my lip. I listen to music hoping that it will lull me to sleep.

And still I look for the answers.

I imagine standing in front of a classroom and doubling over in pain in front of my little students, who won’t understand. I cannot think of a way to completely mask the pain; I know it’s always written on my face, no matter how silent I remain.

I don’t cry anymore.

Instead, I grieve on the inside. Memories of who I was before haunt me constantly.

I find support groups online but stay away. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to face the reality, or if it’s because I have yet to find someone who is going through what I’m going through.

I keep reminding myself of my appointment with the rheumatologist on the 19th, and I think, Maybe there will be answers. But I cannot help but try not to hope, because hope usually comes with disappointment.

Memories surface of the day I did not move from my bed until Mike laid down with me and coaxed me out of bed with sweet words, kisses, and the promise of breakfast at my favorite diner. I view that day with guilt, but also with envy: For just a couple of hours, I allowed myself to mourn. I invited the pain in and lay with it, accepted it.

If only it were so easy. Laying down and being a victim has never been my style. I just internalize it. I go about my daily life, with whatever worry hanging over my head.

This disease has made me older; I wonder whether the hollows under my eyes will be deeper next year, or if my hair will start to gray. I am so tired of fighting, so tired of not knowing. I want to know its name so that I can look it in the face and tell it to fuck off.

Until then, I just rehearse the words, waiting.