When it rains, it -

Makes my joints hurt like hell. (I wanted to say "it pours", because of the power of cliche, but really, it's not raining that hard outside and things have been relatively calm the last few days. No need to say "it pours." Yet, anyways.)

Also at the end of the post, something very important for me to tell all of you.

The first several months after diagnosis, I felt so lucky. So blessed. I had no joint pain at all. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Well, it turns out that what I was REALLY feeling was the mega-dose of steroids I was on, as those are very effective inflammatory reducers.

Take me off the steroids and I'm limping around like some two and a half times my age. I mean, TOTALLY WORTH IT, if it means never touching steroids again, because Hey, Crazy! But goddamn, I didn't know rolling out of bed could hurt.

I have very little experience in dealing with physical pain. A few broken bones, a difficult tooth extraction, sure. But sustained pain that has pressure points? Never had this before, do not quite know what to do about it NOW. I'm learning but it is still disorientating.

The whole "McDonald's makes me sad" has only been occurring in the last six months or so. Since I got sick. Maybe part of it is that I'd finally conquered my association of that place with David, or at least so I'd thought. Maybe I haven't and the sickness just brings it roaring out.

Or like you said, Dabroots, that McDonald's brings out nostalgic, pleasant memories. For most of my life, it has also done so for me. McDonalds is such an American staple, a cultural phenomenon, one very carefully crafted - but COMPLETELY effective - campaign to make us relate McDonalds to something fun and family friendly.

Those two things are in very short order lately. Maybe that is it. The problem is that with all the fast food, both commercial and family-run around here, McDonalds is the one fast food place that actually has things that I can safely eat. So I'm stuck with the clown for now.

Or at least when I'm not feeling wildly indulgent, which happens less and less these days. It's finally getting through my thick damn skull that diet really IS important when its your internal organs on the line.

I did not get the bedding washed. But that's that why I call it the Bucket List goal. It's something to reach for, but not be hard on myself if I'm not able to do it.

I managed to get my regular goal done yesterday. I finished painting my nails. How is it that I can take DAYS to finish painting my nails? I like nail art and that can get complicated. Also, as the lupus ravages my nails and hair, I have to put on, like, FOUR coats of clear topping polish to keep them from breaking at a glance. I usually wind up, between the colors, top coats, and the art themselves, with seven or so coats of polish on.

Today's regular goal: To have the physical and mental wherewithal to hang out with Pat. Today's Bucket List goal: Wash the bedding. Alternatively, dust something. One bookshelf. The tv. SOMETHING. I haven't dusted since August when I got sick. The reaching high and low is a lot to ask of either Jesse or me. Its GOT to be done, though.

I think our house is now comprised of more cat dander and cigarette ash than actual matter or mass.

Something else...something I don't tell you guys near enough. Your emotional support is invaluable, but there's something else you guys give me that is also invaluable.

You make me laugh. You make me smile, you make me giggle, you make me double over with laughter so hard that I am gasping and turning to Jesse and telling him what you guys wrote. Among all of the other things I am given by your support, you also bring delight.

I never much thought of humor being an essential part of life before. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but these days, I am recognizing its part in healing. So you guys make jokes, Jesse will put on stand-up comedy, and suddenly, even if I don't want to, I'm LAUGHING. And for a while, everything feels less overwhelming.

And that's good, because left to my own devices, I'd never do anything but brood and watch dark tv shows. The joy you guys bring into my life through laughter is something I've always needed. I just didn't know it until now.

Thank you guys for that. SO MUCH. SO FUCKING MUCH. I don't say that near enough. THANK ALL OF YOU FOR MAKING ME LAUGH.

This entry was originally posted at http://quirkytizzy.dreamwidth.org/1065291.html
Every time the curative powers of humor are brought up, I feel compelled to bring up a thing.

I'm susceptible to kidney stones. As kidney stones go they're barely worth talking about as a rule. I get a dull ache there - too low to be incipient pleurisy, too high to be incipient back spasms, both familiar nemeses - that comes and goes for a few days, then just goes.

...But that first stone?

That first stone was a MOTHERFUCKER. I repeat: Mother. Fucker. I never saw it, I certainly didn't feel it when it departed, and in fact it might have come off in pieces.

I wonder about that because I have been through shit. I have played unplanned games of Twister on the living room floor to the end of putting on socks and shoes. I have watched my lung volume drop 75% in four hours, because it hurts too goddamn much to attempt any more. I've been doubled over from a toothache so badly that the friend witnessing the experience likened it to the second scene from The Big Lebowski, the one where he's doubled over into the toilet bowl by someone incompetently attempting to collect a debt. (For someone who swears he can't decipher body language, and who is no-kidding incapable of articulating emotion, he's a fucking genius at defusing tension. That's why he's my friend.)

None of this compares to the constant oppressing awfulness that we read about here; I feel it coming, but I know it will go away. I just have to wait it out and take care of myself. T. has no such reassurance, and that bothers me often.

...But back to the story, and the kidney stone.

Immediately adjacent the kidneys lies the diaphragm. You know, that muscle that creates the pressure that makes your lungs do lung things. (Thus how I was able to diagnose it myself.)

...And you know what gives your diaphragm a workout? Laughing does that. Even a mere chuckle does that.

So. Here I am, not so much lying around as sitting on the edge of my chair at all hours, in the worst pain of my life, and the the one calorie-free, drug-free treatment I've got is out of reach because it takes the totally awful worst-ever pain and makes it worse. That adds a whole level of nuanced emotional misery that defies all written expression apart from poetry.

I will not torture you with my poetry, given that my back is threatening to go out, so that presently I'm bathing in the cool frostiness of Tiger Balm and the warm glow of Vicodin.

That kidney stone? Mother. Fucker.

...And for me, at least, pleurisy is worse, because it keeps me from breathing, not just laughing.

...But it goes away. Eventually.

Not sure which is longer - your post or my comment - but... hey. Vicodin.

Thinkin' 'boutcha. Every day. Wish to hell I could do more than this. With a job, maybe a little, but, ya know, debt.

Edited at 2017-03-29 03:21 pm (UTC)