Imuran, Youruan, Wealluran

Kirsten's Blog...November 11, 2009, 7:30 A.M.: No better way to celebrate Veteran's Day than waking up and feeling old. Arthur is certainly alive and kicking today. But after my husband piles me into our little beat-up '92 Honda Civic, we are headed to my rheumatologist to see what can be done about this pesky arthritis. As the doctor inspects the damage, I do my best to fight off tears, but end up having a complete meltdown. Dr. Bonafede is comforting, and helps me get down to business: "What do you want to do?" he says. I want to calmy state, "Strangle you with my gnarled fingers," but think it best to respond instead with, "What's next on the list of meds?" Turns out the next in the batting order is a drug called Imuran, which sounds either like a middle eastern country, or a model married to David Bowie. Turns out this little yellow pill can help slow down the bad cells fighting against my body, but it takes it 3 months to start cleaning house. Dr. Bonafede: "We can also give you cortisone infusions in the short term to deal with the present pain." Hells, yeah! Now, we're speaking my language---watch out, Arthur---you're getting blasted with some serious pain-fighters that are totally going to kick your ass! Funny thing is that I haven't even had the cortisone IV, and I seem to already be feeling better. I think it's having the hope that I can make it through the next few months with some new ammunition in my artillery that is keeping me going. I hate to have an adversarial relationship with Arthur, but dammit, he's left me no other options.

Who is Arthur?

You may be asking yourself: "Who is this Arthur person, and why would this Kirsten person be cursing his name?"

Well, I'm glad you asked yourself this.

Arthur is the affectionate name for my arthritis, more specifically rheumatoid arthritis. I actually borrowed the name for my "friend" from my grandpa Al, who always seemed to be mad at him. Getting up from a chair: "Arthur!!!" Opening a can: "Arthur!!!" As a little girl, I always thought this Arthur character owed my grandpa money or something, but as a wise teenager, I figured things out.

Arthur and I have known each other since I was 16 years old, when pain began to spread through my hands, wrists, feet, and ankles. How to explain this pain? Well, it sucked. At one point, my left ankle was so inflamed that I couldn't wear a shoe and I was hobbling around West High School with my socked mammoth foot hovering in the air. Ah, good times. Sitting outside Principal Rettko's office, I listened as my mother reamed him a new one because he didn't want me to be excused from P.E. Mom saved mammoth foot from running sprints! During P.E. I slept on the school nurse's cot as the nurse suspiciously glared at me and would forget to remind me to wake up for AP English. More stories there, I assure you.

Through the course of college and early adulthood, the theme was experimentation. What was the "med du jour" for this month? (I guess that would be "med du moins"---and I took 5 years of French...crap). Meds seemed to work for the first month or so, and then not so much, so I was back in the doctor's office for something new. Lucky for me, I went to a university clinic, and man, those guys LOVE experimentation. A swat team of lab coats would poke and prod me, consult with each other in knowing voices, and then out came the prescription pad. So in the past 18 years of knowing Arthur, we have consumed our share of drugs: sulfasalazine, prednisone, plaquenil, methotrexate, gold shots, something that gave me a rash, enbrel, remicade, celebrex...well, you get the point.

So, here I am at age 34 and things had been status quo with remicade for the past 5 years. Arthur and I had decided remicade was awesome and we were living together in harmony. I had been dancing, hiking, walking my dog, and feeling so good.

So why would I have bad feelings for Arthur now? Because he got extremely pissed off when I went off remicade and methotrexate so my husband and I could try and get pregnant. Unfortunately, now the term "writhing pain" comes to mind. Every morning is a struggle just to make it to the toilet to pee and put my shoes on, and I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing pissing off Arthur like this.

But then I think, "Screw you, Arthur!" My husband and I want a family, and I'm not going to let my arthritis get in the way. So this is a blog intended to document the ways in which I demonstrate to Arthur who's boss, and also the times in which he kicks my ass (but never for long).

P.S. Sorry if you're reading this and your name is Arthur. I hope you aren't offended or confused.