Breakup Letter to My Favorite Sneakers

To My Dear Black Sneakers,

We've been through so much together. We first met five years ago when my new movie theater job required that I have all black sneakers. I was frustrated about having to go out and drop money on new shoes simply because the black sneakers I was already in a relationship with had a light gray strip on them and they weren't allowed. I walked into the independent shoe store near my house, and I was somehow magically drawn to you. We've been pretty much inseparable since then.

We've spent seven days a week together since; we went to class together Monday through Thursday and to work Friday through Sunday. You supported me during those long 14 hour shifts spent selling popcorn and cleaning up theaters. We went to bars together, experienced first loves together, and traveled around the country together. But most importantly, we got through a pretty nasty diagnosis together.

Nobody understood the frustration that comes from not being able to wear 95% of the shoes on the market without some sort of pain (Exhibit A). It's expected that women my age wear heels when they go out partying. Friends made (eh, still make) fun of me for wearing nothing but sneakers. But you understood. You made sure to keep me comfortable and pain free, at least in terms of my extremely swollen and achy feet. You'll never understand how appreciative I am of that.

Unfortunately, my doctors don't want us together anymore. The podiatrist I saw a few weeks ago said that you're old and worn down, and that you'll be unable to care for my needs much longer. Even the custom inserts that are being made for my shoes won't be able to salvage our relationship. Besides, my feet have become so swollen from the RA that I've gone up half a shoe size since we first met. People grow and change; you need to understand that.

As sad as it is to say, I've already replaced you; there's a box containing brand new sneakers sitting on a chair in the kitchen. If it makes you feel better, they aren't Nikes and they aren't black. Doc wants me to wear New Balance or Asics from now on for their extra support, but finding all black sneakers in those brands is turning out to be an impossible task.

Please comfort yourself with the fact that you are the longest relationship I've ever maintained thus far.

Love,

Alyssa

Remission Possible

Yesterday I had my quarterly appointment with my Rheumatologist. I'm not going to lie: I was freaking out. I've been anxious every day since I got my blood work done two weeks ago. I'm always a mess prior to my doctor visits because of the "unknown" that comes with these appointments. I might think I'm fine, but my rheumy might see otherwise as he examines my joints.

My biggest fear was that he would think it necessary to put me on a stronger medication like Methotrexate, which is a chemo drug. That's the last thing I want to put in my body. I already felt awful about taking my prescription anti-inflammatory. I suppose it comes from belonging to a family that believes in the power of homeopathic treatments. Or maybe it comes from all of the black box warnings that come with my anti-inflammatory.

I sat in the doctor's office nervously tapping my foot. Was I about to receive news that would flip my future upside down? Or would I instead be told that everything looks decent enough and that I could stay on my current treatment plan, but that there was no real improvement? The second scenarios is just as frustrating as the first. The second scenario shows no change, no progress. It doesn't bring a person closer to pain-free days. It just means that your medication is doing the bare minimum. The only thing working in my benefit was that I wasn't in pain at that moment in time. I hadn't felt anything more than some random aches for a week.

My rheumy called me into his office then. He asked me how I was feeling, as always. "Better than usual," I said. He took my hands and began examining them.

"Your hands look great," he said, feeling my knuckles, "no inflammation whatsoever. Are you taking your anti-inflammatory?" I shook my head. "That's a great sign," he continued, "no pain?"

"I haven't been in pain at all for a week. I started taking fish oil." He continued examining my elbows and knees.

"Well, I don't know how much the fish oil contributed, but I think you're in remission. Let's look at the numbers." He pulled out my report and started reading off the results, comparing them to the last test. "I think you're in remission. Keep doing whatever you're doing."

Remission. When I first diagnosed, that was the thing I wanted most in the whole world. Now three years to the month of my diagnosis, I've achieved it. I was floating on a cloud, and I wanted to tell the entire world how happy I was. I ran to my one on-campus job just to tell my boss the good news. She had been trying to help me find natural cures. I told every coworker who would listen. And even though I'm not the kind of person who likes to air all of my business on Facebook, I posted about it there too. 70 people "liked" my status and congratulated me. I was touched that people cared, at least enough to comment with congratulations and well wishes.

Now, how did I really know when I was in remission? I knew it was for real when I picked up a skinny Papermate pen and could sign my name without pain. I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. I sat in my room and sobbed. This was real.

I know it's not permanent. Remission isn't a cure, only a period where the disease lies dormant. I may flare again next week. I may not flare for another few months or years. But trust me when I say that I'm making the most of this moment, the fact that I'm in little to no pain, and that I'm seriously loving my life right now. 

An Impractical Phobia

I'm going to open up about something here that I don't normally admit to people: I am absolutely, 100% terrified of, and disgusted by, blood tests and all forms of needles used for medical purposes. Whew.

Okay, now you think I'm the world's biggest crybaby. It's cool, I get it. I don't take offense. You may also be wondering why I specified "needles for medical purposes." Well, that's because anyone who knows me also knows that I at one point had 13 piercings (down to 10 now) and that I also have a very large tattoo on my left foot (which was an excruciating type of pain, I might add). These body modifications did not faze me one bit. My reasoning for this unreasonable logic is that I was voluntarily subjecting myself to that madness for the purpose of art. Blood tests and vaccines are not voluntary. Nor pleasant. Nor artistic.

My fear probably has something to do with the traumatizing blood test I had done at age 12. I guess the lab tech's comment about how her eye doctor had accidentally switched her contact prescription didn't register with my mother. Prior to this debacle, I had no fear of any sort of needle. I suppose multiple stabs, twisting needles and fainting tend to cause irrational fears. For someone like me, a phobia of needles is quite impractical. I have to get blood work done every three months so that my Rheumatologist can track how well my medication is working and make sure my internal organs aren't showing signs of damage. 

This morning I had to get blood work done. The same lab tech takes my blood each time, and he's aware of my fear (probably from all of the sweating and shaking, and probably also from the fact that I refuse to watch). He tries to tease me. "Well Miss Pierce, at least you never have to worry about becoming a heroin addict" or "You better be nice to me, otherwise I'll use a bigger needle." Humor definitely helps calm me down. It also helps to know that he's aware my veins are hard to find, that he could only draw blood from my right arm, and that he needs to use a butterfly needle to do so. That sort of trust will help you conquer phobias.

Since I'll be getting jabbed with a needle every three months until the day I die, I know I eventually need to suck it up and get over my fear completely. Maybe a few more blood tests that go smoothly will help. Today I wasn't shaking as much as usual, and I did attempt to glance down at the blood being drawn. It's a good day and a small victory I'm proud of.