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Fabulous Friday, life getting better

Fabulous Friday: Loving What Is

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I’ll admit I stole the title from Byron Katie’s book of the same name, but I’m sure it has something to do with flattery.

Or something.

It’s been a bit of a rough week. I’m on my (I hope! I hope!) final leg of my prednisone journey, and on Sunday I started a 5mg dose, down from 10 mg. So much for that “uphill battle” thing: the trip down is far rougher than the trip up. Including the ‘roid rage and my flipping out over the bullshit mockumentary of the horrors of Planned Parenthood, which ended with my yelling at someone I really respect, realizing I was yelling at someone I really respect, and hiding away for the rest of the day.

Not my finest moment.

But going down is worse.

Because I had calmed down (way, way down), I had missed how much I had been “propped up” (almost quite literally) by the prednisone.  A couple of weeks ago, I went from 15 mg to 10 mg, and I could feel a difference energy-wise, but it wasn’t a huge deal. I  wasn’t flaring up every other day, so I knew the Enbrel is working.  Going down another notch on the steroids, however,  has pretty left me dragging myself around, kinda-sorta moving from task to task.   A bit of swelling started on Wednesday in my hands, and I’m hurting.

Not all days are good ones; not all weeks are good ones.  And yet, here I stand, A little over 9 months since my first flare-up, and I’m in better shape than I ever would have imagined at that point.

When I’m asked how I’m doing, I answer, quite honestly, “I’ve had much worse days.”

Because I have. Much, much, worse days.  I have constant nausea; in fact, I’m recommending to all my friends that they buy stock in Coca-Cola because I’m pretty much living off of Sprite and plain saltine crackers.

And yet, here I stand.

I am grateful that I have such a great boss. I’m grateful for my coworkers who, despite the sheer chaos of their days at times, still check on me.

And I’m very, very grateful for my friends.  I’m grateful when I see “long-lost” ones and play board games with them, and I’m grateful when I lose by negative 78 points because I don’t know what I’m doing.

I’m very, very grateful for like-minded people and the ability we share to lose ourselves in laughter.

I had committed to NaNoWriMo this month, and my goal is to lay down another 50k words and just trudge through the rough draft. I want it finished. Considering I barely broke 30K all year, though,it’s a long shot.

But I seem to excel at longshots. I’ve only written about 3k so far, but it’s more than I had written in all of October. So it’s something.

And it’s pretty fabulous from where I’m standing.

rheumatoid arthritis

Fabulous Friday: Fit to be Tied

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Since my crazy random happenstance visit with the rheumatologist, my life has drastically changed.

Drastically.

She put me on Enbrel, sent me home with three samples (after impressing upon me the value of said booty), and set me up with a pharmacy that handles the Enbrel copay assistance card, since my usual pharmacy doesn’t.

The first night, I was ansty.  I hate needles. Loathe them. Wish they’d burn in the fiery pits of hell.

Despite knowing what I wanted for my first tattoo for over 20 years,  it wasn’t until I was 40 that I had it done, and that was with, shall we say, medicinal assistance.

Have I mentioned I hate needles?

I did everything according to the oral instructions given.  Laid it out 30 minutes beforehand. Check. Alcohol swab. Check. Choosing an abdominal spot. Check.

My hands were shaky and I could see the sweat dripping to the floor.

It’s a pen, much like my father’s insulin pen. You place it and click. It’s that easy.

But my fingers wouldn’t work, and in half a second, I went from “I think I can do this,” to “Oh mah Gawd, my fingers don’t work, I’ll never be able to do this; I’m never going to get any better!” and the sweat joined with copious tears as they splattered against each other, racing for the floor.

I managed to get the pen to a somewhat secure countertop before I went into full-histrionic flailing. My head banged like I was at a Queen concert during a Bohemian Rhapsody encore. My hands fisted and flung, hitting legs, forehead, perhaps even my neighbor’s cockatoo.

Actually, I’m not sure it was quite that bad.

But I did manage to knock the instructions to the floor (when in doubt, read the instructions), and….well.

Well. Well. Well.

In my anxiety, I had forgotten to remove the protective cap.

Cause, stress.

And so I survived it. It wasn’t fun. It still burned. But I did it, and, immediately upon finishing my ten count (click…count to ten, slowly), I texted my best friend: Time for a new tattoo!

Too bad they cost money and stuff.

But now, I’m three shots in, about 2 1/2 weeks into this new med, and…I’m a new person. I’m still stiff (as hell) in the morning, and I’m awfully grateful for a really awesome boss. I still have “generalized pain,” but it’s down several, several notches, and, best of all, I haven’t had any sort of flare since I’ve started.

I am nauseous for several days afterward, and I still get really tired early. What a pain that is–to be too exhausted to do anything, and yet too something else to sleep!

I’m also remembering things better. I’m not sure if it’s a lower dose of the methotrexate or what. I still forget stuff, but I’m “remembering” that I forgot it, so am much better able to take care of the stuff I need to.

Some days I even can do housework after work, or play with the dog.  Not every day, but this is a vast, vast improvement over just a couple of weeks ago.

I’m moving better–and therefore, more.  I started a lower dose of prednisone this Sunday (10 for 2 weeks, lowering to 5 for 2 weeks, lowering to–hopefully–none for a long, long time) and yet, yesterday was the first day I felt comfortable enough walking to go without the cane at work for bits of time.

Life is fabulous indeed.