Tuesday passed as Tuesday’s will in any life, and especially in the chronic life. Run here, run there, drop the truck at the mechanic, take chronic kitty to the vet, fight with unresponsive websites, then spend an hour on the phone with Enbrel and the mail-order pharmacy. And complete all of this before the appointed Enbrel Hour. Do that quick injection because there’s no time to be wimpy or squeamish. Outwit the men at a game of Catan, take pup for a walk under the stars, and finally settle the Enbrel-hungover self into bed. And will sleep to be mine. Otto, you won that game.
As I contemplate the hilarity of this, instead of pain, creativity begins to flow. I walk duck-footed to the study to grab the tired, key-banging laptop. Fingers are stiff and the silver box is heavy, but I lug it and the wood lap desk to bed. Heating pad toasty, and a still snoozing pup is at my side. He’s belly-up with paws comfortably limp. Instead of my envy for his perfect rest, he should be envious of me enjoying the grainy, raw thrill of this 1967 TV performance of The Doors.
I am grateful that most of the pain I feel from Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease is more of an insidious type that wakes me gradually. Though mine is always present, I cannot fathom those who have no respite from instense arthritis pain. I pray that my pain remains more casual. At times it’s a creeping fog of cold pain that reaches each distant limb and digit. Sometimes I have waves of pain, more often a constant ache that migrates. Still, it is enough that it distracts me, or makes even my sarcasm go silent. That’s a travesty, but humor remains my default so here I am. Me and Jim, before dawn.