The diagnosis is more or less in. I went back for some more labwork (got pinched and bruised more this time, curse my tiny veins) the other day, but it’s pretty much a certainty unless I’m a freak of nature.

Rheumatoid arthritis.

I got the news and cried at work. This is bad news at any age, but it really stomped me in the chest. I’m twenty-six. I always knew I was at risk for this, but my sister is two years older and she’s fine. Why do I have to keep winning the lottery?

Today was a complete off day, as I’m still trying to deal with the sudden and complete lack of hope–because, oh yes, my doctor got my hopes up. Sometimes too high a dose of thyroid medication can trigger arthritis-like symptoms, he said. I wish he hadn’t now. Boy do I wish he hadn’t.

Because I started to hope. Which I should never, ever do. It doesn’t work out. I told a friend once that I don’t wish on stars or things because it’s pointless, and she acted like it was the saddest thing in the world. To me, it was just the way things are. Whenever I flub and hope anyway, I just crash down like a stone into an empty bucket and feel bad for days.

That’s what happened today. Of all the things I could have done and a couple of things that should have been done, all I managed to do was a load of laundry and the rest of my half-finished post for the project I mentioned last time I blogged.

I don’t want to be dull, though. I always feel I’m being unbearably tedious when I mention my health problems.

There are other things going on, and the most important ones are even harder and worse than what I’m whining about. I shall try to be cheery tomorrow. My wrist is hurting too much to keep typing, so I’ll have to be cheery tomorrow.


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