When I got sick 10 years ago, I wasn’t planning on getting sick. I was actually planning to grow my web design business, save up the good salary I was making, and have a family. I wanted three kids. I’d only just started dating Mike, so I can’t say I was planning on marrying him, but I was an 18-year-old woman with hopes and dreams. I didn’t plan on getting sick. My goal was not to leave the workforce and become homebound because of my illness. I wanted to travel, to eventually set down roots and buy a house. I didn’t plan on going on state insurance because my husband and I couldn’t afford his company’s plan. I didn’t foresee setting aside my dream of having a family.
Let me be clear: I love my life. I’m happy that, even though I’ve lost a lot, I have been able to pursue my other dream—being a storyteller—even while bedridden. But I did not plan on getting sick.
No one does.
Mothers don’t hope to give birth to a baby who loses a kidney before he can even walk. Veterans don’t think they’ll spend their retirement years battling cancer instead of enjoying their grandchildren. Hardworking women who once worked multiple jobs don’t pencil in getting emphysema and pneumonia on their schedule.
But it happens, because life happens.
Today the Senate voted to continue working to repeal Obamacare and replace it with Trumpcare. The proposed bill blocks people with pre-existing conditions from getting insurance, takes away funding from state insurance that helps low-income people, and all but cripples healthcare assistance for the elderly and disabled.
All of this right smack in the middle of my disease changing.
Aside from worrying about family members and friends who will definitely be affected by the Senate’s decision today—possibly mortally so—I’m concerned about me. Because not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how different things might be for me if I hadn’t gotten sick. Would I have a mortgage and three kids? Ironically, if I hadn’t gotten sick, I could afford to pay for my healthcare.
I didn’t get a chance to really blog about it, but I’m having bladder and nerve issues that may be related to my UCTD—that may indicate that it’s developing into Lupus. I’m waiting on labs that my new rheumatologist ordered to check on my kidneys. I’ll probably be seeing a urologist to figure out what’s going on with my bladder; a neurologist ruled out carpal tunnel and said she thinks my nerve pain is from my autoimmune disease. My rheumatologist said that Plaquenil can be great for some things but not others; I may be looking at adding another medication to my regimen.
More tests, followups, and medications that I cannot afford out of pocket.
Under Trumpcare, I’d be blocked from getting insurance because of my pre-existing condition. Right now, I truly don’t know what’s going to happen to me.
And I’m trying like hell right now to not think about the people I know who will actually die without their medications and treatments. Because if I do, I won’t be able to breathe.
Today my country made a shameful, disgusting decision—all because part of the government can’t stand that a black president dared to try to help sick, disabled, and low-income people. They can’t bear to let Obamacare exist, just like they couldn’t bear to allow the original bill to pass. Instead of trying to fix the things that are wrong with Obamacare—like the annual fee for uninsured people that, ironically enough, the GOP helped create because they bickered over the original bill—they’d rather burn it all down, out of spite. They’d rather not examine the exorbitant cost of healthcare and medication in this country. And now 24 to 32 million Americans face losing healthcare. Of those 32 million, a good percent of them will die without it.
I cried all afternoon. My eyes are swollen, my heart is broken, and my autoimmune disease continues to attack my connective tissues, nerves, and bladder. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me or my loved ones. I keep trying to find some hope tonight, something to hold onto. Because I’m one step closer to losing my healthcare, but it’s not over yet.
My goal for my rheumatology appointment this morning was to walk out with some kind of progress. Any progress. I just wanted to move toward getting my life back. That’s all I’ve wanted for the past decade.
On Thanksgiving, a week before my followup appointment with my rheumatologist, I’m so miserable I consider going to the ER instead of family dinner. Every joint in my body is stiff and agonizingly sore. The pain keeps me awake at night. I’m so stiff, my husband has to help me get dressed. I’m 28 years old and I was raised by strong women; I’m used to doing everything myself. I feel powerless. Mike feels useless. We go to Thanksgiving dinner under a blanket of defeat.
My sister-in-law is having her own health troubles. I want to help her and be there for her, but I’m nearly incapacitated. My mother-in-law takes her to the ER, and I stay behind with the guys to finish and eat dinner. While I’m taking my plate to the sink, my left ankle goes out.
It’s so sore, I can’t bear weight on it. I swallow back tears; surrounded by a bunch of tough guys, I don’t want to cry like a little girl. A well-meaning family member gives me a Percocet to get me through the rest of the day. It helps, but it’s strong; by the time I get to my grandmother’s, I’m in a haze and I hate it. My body doesn’t have to fight off pain anymore, so I can finally rest, but I struggle to stay awake during dinner.
My aunt brings me home early, and the second I get home, I start vomiting. I’m not used to medicine like Percocet. It’s too strong. I throw up for hours, on my aching hands and knees on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet. The pain comes roaring back, and I have to limp-run to the bathroom every half hour. By some miracle I make it to the toilet every time.
By the time Mike gets home from work, I’m dehydrated and exhausted. I probably should go to the ER, but I’m disoriented. Mike brings me ginger ale and I struggle to keep it down. I curl into a ball in bed and hope the morning brings relief.
I stop vomiting, but the pain and stiffness keep me in a haze of hopelessness.
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It’s two nights before my rheumatology appointment, and I can’t sleep. My body is exhausted by pain, fatigue, and stress, but my mind is wired with anxiety. I’m worried that once again my appointment will end in disappointment, that I’ll once more feel brushed off, that I’ll still feel like I’m just spinning my wheels.
I try everything I can think of to fall asleep.
Cleaning, to work off that anxious energy. I do dishes, soak kitchen towels in bleach in a bucket, and fill my sink to soak cutting boards in bleach. I consider sweeping and mopping, but my body isn’t up to it. I’m tired all the way down to my bones. Even with pain medicine, my joint pain is agonizing.
In bed, I play Bejeweled on my iPhone to quiet my mind, and watch ASMR videos to help me drift off, but it’s useless.
I toss and turn all night, unable to get my body comfortable, unable to shut off my worries.
One day before my appointment, I wake up anxious. I want to tackle my To Do list; I have a lot of work to do but it will also help me get my mind off my pain and anxiety. Everything that can go wrong does. I spend hours trying to fix my antivirus; its firewall is blocking my internet. All I want to do is work off my anxiety, which grows by the second because I can’t fix my computer and I’m falling even more behind on my To Do list.
By the time I solve the issue, my fingers and wrists are so stiff and sore, I barely get any writing or any other work done. Instead of cooking the chicken parmesan dinner I’d planned, I make ramen and binge Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix. I need a hero.
After dinner, I spend hours writing up a seven-page document for my rheumatologist. I define my goals, outline my medical history (completely healthy before this illness set in), list my symptoms and trouble joints, describe treatments I’ve tried, tally activities that are affected by my chronic arthralgia, stiffness, and fatigue, catalog various labs that have popped up over the past nine years. My hope is that, by laying all this out for my rheumatologist, he can piece together whatever it is that’s wrong. Going through the document makes me realize how very bad this disease actually is.
Before I got sick, I played on a city softball team. I was the catcher. I had to stop playing because I couldn’t move fast enough to make bases or catch balls.
Before I got sick, I worked multiple jobs and at one point even had my own web design business. I had to leave the workforce because, sitting or standing, my body couldn’t handle the demands.
After I got sick, I went back to school to become an elementary school teacher. I was seeing my first rheumatologist, Dr. Greco, and the medication I was on had nasty side effects. The pain and fatigue pulled me further and further behind on my studies; both my grades and GPA plummeted. My fellow students either ignored or made fun of me. A girl who I thought was my friend ditched me on our way to an exam, and started treating me badly. The stress of being sick and trying to get through school was too much on my body. I withdrew and never went back.
Those are only three of the things I’ve lost.
I print out two copies of the document—one for me and one for Dr. S—and prepare to go into battle the next morning. Once again, I’m fighting to get my life back. I’m fighting to advocate for myself, to be heard. To not be erased.
Right as I’m about to lie down, my hypoglycemia flares and my blood sugar plummets. Tramadol wears off and the pain comes roaring back up to a 9/10. I make more ramen. Midnight comes and passes. I lie down again and calm myself with ASMR videos and one of the same threes audiobooks I listen to every night. Eventually, I fall asleep, but the pain wakes me intermittently. I can’t get comfortable.
My mind starts to run through scenarios: what I’ll say to Dr. S, the kinds of questions I want to ask, the what-ifs. Usually I just sit with my anxiety, let the feelings in, and examine them. But I have to get to sleep so I can be fresh and on my game in the morning. I slam down steel shutters, bottling up my worries. But they leak in anyway.
Between the pain and anxiety, I barely rest.
The morning of my appointment, I wake up over two hours before I’m supposed to be there. The plan is to have enough time to sit and let my joints un-stiffen. Of course, nothing goes according to plan.
My alarm goes off but I’m foggy and my bones scream for more sleep. I set it for another half hour and drift off immediately. It seems like only minutes later my alarm goes off again.
I have to get up, or I won’t have enough time.
Even though I’m too nervous to eat, I make oatmeal and coffee. I eat half my bowl and drink a third of my coffee. My mouth is so dry. I take my morning medication—vitamin D and one of my two daily Tramadol—and slowly dress, do my makeup and hair, and gather my papers and planner. Mike is off from work, so he drives me. A few days before, I asked him to come into the exam room with me and fight for me, to back me up on everything I’m saying—to explain how he has to help me do simple things like get dressed, to parrot what I tell the rheumatologist. It’s a proven fact that doctors take men more seriously. Mike is skeptical, but agrees to help me advocate for myself.
I leave our apartment armed with my seven-page document and husband. The only weapon I’ve ever had are my words. On the drive over, I mentally repeat affirmations: I am strong, I will accomplish my goal of progress, I am beautiful, I can do this. I lift my chin while fending off doubts.
I’m still worried that my rheumatologist will brush me off again.
In the exam room, he gets right down to business. He remembers our phone conversation where I all but begged him to help me, to listen to me, to sleuth this out with me. He starts off by reviewing my last labs and our phone conversation about trying Plaquenil. I’d intended to start off by asking him if we could go over the last decade, but didn’t want to interrupt him. He sees my papers, though, and asks if I have something for him. I pass over his copy.
I explain that I thought it might be helpful if we reviewed everything. He seems surprised and impressed. So we do. He asks questions. I give him answers, referring to my document when the fatigue and brain fog set in and I can’t remember. We talk about how I have flareups and remissions, about how the stiffness and intense pain lasts hours in the morning and then I have a small window midday when it calms down, how I’ve taken Prednisone in the past and it helped kick my flareup both times.
Dr. S says he definitely doesn’t think this is Fibromyalgia, because of the stiffness. But he also explains that usually with Lupus, there are other markers. I only have the anti-dsDNA, so it’s difficult to diagnose. But there’s definitely something autoimmune going on. I tell him about how Dr. Greco, my first rheumatologist, explained to me that I’m on the very bottom of the bell curve; something is definitely brewing, but I’m right on the edge and it’s hard to tell what just yet. Dr. S says that’s exactly what he thinks, and that he wants to monitor how this progresses.
But he also doesn’t want me to be in so much pain, and to be unable to perform daily activities. I tell him that’s all I’ve wanted for the last nine years—to get some of my life back.
He decides to start me on Plaquenil, cautioning me that it could take up to six months for me to notice any difference. We both have to be patient, he says. He suggests I keep a diary: rate the pain, list activities I’m having a hard time doing, etc. That way we can track how well Plaquenil is working. I now take 200mg of Plaquenil, twice a day—400mg in total. On this, I can expect very low side effects; he said maybe one day of diarrhea. It’s nothing like Sulfasalazine—no headaches or metallic taste, and no liver and kidney damage.
He’s also got me on Prednisone for a few weeks, to help kick the flareup while Plaquenil starts working, since we know it’s worked in the past. I’m taking 10mg of Prednisone every morning. It’s a low dose, so I can expect less intense side effects. In the past it’s made me dizzy and sweaty, and made my heart race and kept me up all night. I’m to take it first thing in the morning, to lower the chance of it keeping me awake.
I thank him profusely. Along with this new DMARD, he’s given me hope.
Mike and I go to our favorite sushi restaurant to celebrate. They have a lunch special and I owe him money for the printer ink he bought me the other day. We reconnect over sushi and when I get my fortune, I’m delighted.
“You have had a good start,” it says. “Work harder!” This is heartening.
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We head over to the pharmacy next. I go in without my wallet, because I’m only there to pick up my prescriptions and my insurance completely covers them, but when I walk in, there’s a display full of live Christmas cactuses. Their pink blooms are beautiful, and they remind me of my Biz Noni—who always had one. I can’t walk out of there without one. They’re only $3.99, but with my savings card I end up saving a dollar.
I walk out with all kinds of new hope in my hands, hands that can’t hold much these days but are so open to catch whatever tools life wants to give me to fight. Like I told my rheumatologist, I’ll do just about anything to feel better. I just need someone to give me a chance.
In the car, on the way home, I take my first dose.
Prednisone still tastes awful going down. I’d forgotten how bad it tastes. But the Plaquenil has no taste and, unlike the SSZ, it doesn’t leave a film on my hands.
It tastes like hope.
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I never followed up on my last health update (the one where I found out I was once again looking at a Lupus diagnosis). Since that post, I’ve gone into a full-throttle, super nasty flareup.
My pain has been steadily at 10/10 (8/10 at the lowest, with medication). I thought I had it under control after breaking up my Tramadol dose. Usually I take 100mg at bedtime, but I started taking 50mg in the morning and another 50mg at lunch instead, using my herbal medicine before bed to get me through the night. I got the idea to split my Tramadol from a friend, whose pain management doctor told her that Tramadol isn’t great for treating pain; you have to take it ahead of the pain—which I’ve long suspected. The downside to all of this Tramadol? TMI alert: I’ve been a little constipated, which I’m pretty sure is making my back pain worse.
Joint pain is symmetric, meaning both sides hurt. So both of my thumbs are painful and stiff, both knees, both elbows, etc. Oddly, my right side hurts more than the left in some cases; my right big toe, right hip, and right thumb have consistently been more swollen and painful than the left side. I suspect these joints all have bone spurs (Dr. Memet said she thought my toe did [both in the toe joint itself and the other nearby joints]—, my hip x-rays showed bone spurs, and my thumb feels exactly the same as the other joints do).
The pain is a hot ache and it radiates. But it also feels… bruised? There’s almost a throbbing, too; I can feel my joints swelling. It’s really hard to explain. Regardless, it feels fucking horrible.
My lower back is equally painful on each side, and very stiff. This morning Mike had to help me get dressed and put my slippers on. He had to help me sit and stand up multiple times. And every time I need to get something from one of our cabinets, he’s had to do it for me (our cabinets are underneath our counter—no overhead ones).
The pain wakes me up at night, multiple times. There have been a few nights where I couldn’t get comfortable and so didn’t sleep at all.
On top of the pain, I’m drained—no matter how much sleep I get. I’m not usually a napper, but I’ve been caving and taking naps. I’ve also been chugging Emergen-C like it’s my job. Neither that or coffee really help, though, so I’ve mostly been drinking plain water.
The only place I’m truly comfortable is on the couch. It curves nicely against my back and reclines, so I can get the pressure off my hips and knees too.
I need my cane while out and about—if I’m even up to leaving. I stayed home instead of going to a wedding reception this weekend. Today I basically haven’t moved from the couch, because walking and standing are sucky.
Since my last post, I found out that my anti-dsDNA was positive and pretty freakin’ high. A positive anti-dsDNA means:
there’s definitely something autoimmune going on
there’s a pretty good chance it’s Lupus
the immune system is attacking the DNA
the person is currently or about to be in a flareup
the higher the levels, the worse the flareup
My rheumatologist’s lab measures anything over a 10 as positive; my anti-dsDNA measured a 24. That’s more than double the normal level.
My rheumatologist said he doesn’t want to diagnose without a positive ANA, but I’ve found several medical journal articles that said doctors don’t need more than a positive anti-dsDNA to diagnose Lupus—especially with presenting symptoms. My rheumatologist said he was calling in Plaquenil, though—or so I thought. When I went to pick it up at my pharmacy, it wasn’t in. I checked the pharmacy several times, and they even checked other locations. No dice.
Honestly I’ve been so exhausted, not to mention tired of the medical merry-go-round, I haven’t called my rheumatologist’s office yet to see what happened with the ‘script. I was on the phone multiple times with them before and after my blood work came back, trying to resolve my bad appointment. I’m just sick of having to do all of this.
I have, however, been reading up on the anti-dsDNA, Lupus, and some other things.
What Arthritis Pain Feels Like—It’s possible that I have both OA and RA (or Lupus). Dr. M told me I have bone spurs in multiple joints. However, some articles indicate that bone spurs can be caused by RA/autoimmune. It really depends on the author, as rheumatologists all have different opinions. Either way, this article describes my pain to a T.
New Findings with Eppstein Barr Virus—I know one thing for sure: this all started after I had mono, which is caused by EBV. I thought this article was interesting, because even though it didn’t mention Lupus, it did mention some findings. For example, researchers believe that a healthy zinc level may keep chronic active EBV disease at bay. I’m wondering if my EBV is slowly evolving into Lupus. If so, could taking some of these supplements help keep flareups away? Or maybe it’s CAEBV? Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? Rheumatoid Arthritis? Lupus? Some combination of multiple or all of these? Can someone please get me some answers before I lose my mind? 😜
Anti-DsDNA is more specific to lupus than ANA and can be very valuable in making a diagnosis of lupus. […] If the anti-DsDNA levels are high, the disease is more likely to be active. There is either a current flare or a flare may be imminent.
I’ve long been complaining about Connecticut healthcare. Recently I found another spoonie living in CT who, after years of getting nowhere, went to see a rheumatologist in Boston. Within a single office visit, he diagnosed her and began treatment. I’m starting to think it’s time to get an out-of-state opinion.
She also has a post all about filing for disability, which really gave me hope because I thought after being rejected that there was no way I could get it. I know many people get rejected the first time and have to try again, try again, but I thought since I lost my diagnosis, I definitely didn’t have a chance. But it seems like, as long as you can prove your illness is affecting your ability to work—which it is—you can get disability.
I know I should’ve called both my primary and rheumatologist days ago, because even if they don’t feel like doing anything about it, at least this will be documented. It’s nearly time for a followup visit with my rheumatologist anyway, and I’m scheduled for a followup with my primary for November 17th. (Long story short: My primary wants me to come in every month in order to have my Tramadol refilled.) And my rheumatologist wanted to check my levels again in another month.
I’m out of ink (and can’t afford more right now, sigh); I’d really like to print off these articles as well as a list—my current symptoms, things I’ve tried, goals that I have, etc—and bring them in with me. I’ve started looking for rheumatologists in Boston who take my insurance (spoiler: there aren’t many), and I’m considering picking one and calling to make an appointment. But it’s a three-hour drive there, and we’re barely scraping by—never mind able to afford a trip to Massachusetts and back. I’m really starting to think it’s worth the risk, though.
I also need to get my medical records from Dr. Mongelluzzo (my former primary) and Dr. Greco (my first rheumatologist who retired, which was why I started seeing Dr. M); those records have blood work showing positive anti-dsDNA (and I’m pretty sure a positive ANA, too). I’d like copies for myself, rather than transferring them over. For one, it’s just good to have them. And two, I don’t trust Dr. S to actually read through them (nor do I trust Mongelluzzo’s office to actually fax them over, as I’ve had so many issues with them in the past; they’re very nice but extremely busy). I’d like to make copies of my copies for Dr. S, and highlight things that fit into the puzzle. Basically, I have to be my own detective and advocate.
The problem is, I need to get into Waterbury and sign a release form for each of them (the offices are across the city from each other). This is also a gas money issue. And, I have to pay for copies of my medical records from Dr. Mongelluzzo (I’m not sure about Greco’s office). A friend got copies of hers, and it was something like $2 a page—so I know my records are going to be hefty, since I was there for several years.
So maybe now you can see why I’m so doctor-fatigued. 😂
It’s all got to be done, though, if I’m ever going to get anywhere. I’d really like to start moving forward, because I’ve been in limbo for the past nine years. I mean, I dropped out of the university I was attending for my B.S. in Elementary Education because I was so sick. And I never went back. I’m still paying off those student loans. Even though I really love being an author, it’s not enough. We’re drowning here; I’m frustrated because I can’t work, and Mike is frustrated because his job doesn’t pay enough and he can’t seem to find anything else. It’s kind of funny because we both really want to take care of each other.
He insists that he can handle everything if he finds something better; I insist that, if only I could get better, I could work too and he wouldn’t have to stress it.
I keep hoping that if I work hard enough, write better books, and write enough books, we won’t even have to worry about it anymore. But the reality is, even if I became the best author in the world with the most published books ever, it’s not always possible to make a living. I mean, maybe I’m being cynical and negative, but someone has to be on the low end of the spectrum. Not everyone can be a NYT/USAT bestselling author or even mid-list.