"I have reached the point where I can suffer no more, because all suffering is sweet to me." -- Saint Therese de Lisieux, a.k.a. The Little FlowerYeah, sorry, St. Therese: I'm not there yet.
For any of you who may currently be, or may someday be taking shots of methotrexate to control an auto-immune disease, here's some advice: your ass, really, is the best location.
Yesterday I had my weekly shot, and just not wanting to deal with the perpetual indignity of dropping trou every damn week, I asked my rheumatologist if I could get it in the arm.
Big mistake.
When I started methotrexate, I knew it was a tough drug to deal with, but my RA has become increasingly severe, and the other drugs (steroids, plaquenil, etc) weren't making an impact. So I decided to look upon methotrexate as a band of roaming, angry nuns who were going to restore respect and order to my g-dless immune system. Get those white blood cells under control. Show those damn rheumatic fevers who's boss. Whip out the paddle, yardstick, or two-pound metal ruler (favorite teaching tools of the nuns of the Convent of the Immaculate Conception) and go all Barefoot Carmelites of Prague on this disease.
But it didn't really work that way. First of all, I was taking pills. Six of them broken up into two pills three times a day - once a week. Everyone said to make sure I took them before the weekend so that I wouldn't be in bad shape once Saturday arrived. Unfortunately, there were still Thurday and Friday to think about. Methotrexate taught me many things: for instance, how many words one could make out of the phrase SPARE ROLL PUSH engraved on the toilet paper dispener in our restroom. (So far PURPLE and LEPROUS are my faves).
It also taught me a different way of observing Shabbat by being too sick to move from one's couch on Friday night, and falling asleep in front of What Not to Wear; or alternatively listening to Stacy and Clinton berate some poor unsuspecting woman for her fashion choices, as I hung out at an undisclosed location on the floor of my bathroom. I would, of course, much rather have been at services. Prostrating oneself before the porcelain god - not exactly the same as standing before the Ark, if you know what I mean.
So in desperation, I switched to shots. Went to the pharmacy to get hooked up with syringes and vials (and found out that syringes apparently are not an everyday request in Larchmont), but my health insurance wouldn't pay for me to self-inject in the privacy of my own home. So every week I get the grand and glorious opportunity, at $50 a pop, to moon my doctor and get injected with 6ccs of this horrific solution that looks like piss and smells like formaldehyde. I stand there, temporarily pants-free, feel that damn needle go in and think to myself that this just can't be good for me in the long-term.
My family, in their usual helpful way, thinks this whole RA thing is all a crock. At best, I think they see it punishment for my failure to adhere to their standards of beauty. That I got this disease by my own fault, by being overweight. And I shouldn't complain about it, because if only I were thin, I wouldn't even need the damn drug. And that when I lose the weight, the RA will pack up and go away. Not only will being thin solve that problem, I'll also get married! And then perhaps I'll even shoot rainbows and butterflies out my ass.
But this week was different. I got the shot in my arm yesterday, and lo and behold, I am sick as hell today, the way I was when I took the pills. So far, I've managed to eat an apple. And drink some water. And a couple of sips of diet Coke. What I really want is a ginger ale and maybe some rice, but I'm scared of the sugar and carbs. Maybe I can't win for losing, but then again, as far as the diabetic thing is concerned, I do agree with my family: I did this to myself.
So, Little Flower, suffering may be sweet to you, but it surely can't be as sweet as kvetching is to my people. I don't exactly see your point of view, because my illnesses - and maybe even yours, too - are anything but sweet - and I mean that in the Splenda sense of the word. But you're a saint, and heaven knows, I'm not. So perhaps it all worked out for you; then again, since you died at 24, you missed out on a lot of potential sweetness in life. I may be a kvetch, but I'm planning on avoiding dying young, no matter how sweet it is.
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