Baby Eminem, Prednisone, and the Call of the Coast
Oh, the gut-wrenching, soul-searching, life-altering decision I must make…
Do I want to go to Florida from Friday until Monday night?
YES. A thousand times yes.
Do I want to drive 15 hours there and 15 hours back within a single week?
Absolutely not. In fact, my body laughed at the very thought. My joints whispered, “Girl, you better sit down.”
But let’s talk about that Florida sunshine. Just imagining it makes me feel like Simba being lifted on Pride Rock. It’s calling to me! Meanwhile, Kentucky seems to have turned into a land of gloom, joint pain, and unanswered medical questions. So, I’m torn between a beach and a heating pad. Decisions, decisions.
On a brighter note, let’s talk about Quincy’s second grade spring pictures. Y’all. They are SO good. Like, frame-worthy, mantle-top-level good. The boy has this little smirk and a buzz cut that makes him look just a little like Eminem—if Eminem were a smiley, second-grade heartthrob with a glow-up that’s already starting. I don’t know what’s in the water at that school, but Quincy is thriving, and the camera clearly knows it. I’ve already emailed the proofs to three people and forced two more to admire them in person.
Yesterday, I visited my rheumatologist, and by “visited,” I mean I sat there while we all collectively agreed we had no idea what was going on with my body. As a consolation prize, they gave me a giant steroid dosage—yay inflammation reduction! They said 40 mg of prednisone would have me ready to run a marathon. Lies. All lies. I took it this morning, got cozy, and promptly passed out for another three hours. I am now two hours post-nap, and I’m so drowsy I’m typing this with one eye open. WHERE’S MY MARATHON, PREDNISONE?
They did an ultrasound on my hands and took blood (again), supposedly to check for rheumatoid factor and a few other mysterious things. Fun fact: in all the gallons of blood hematology took from me last month, the one test they didn’t run? Yep. Rheumatoid arthritis. Story. Of. My. Life.
Next week, I’m getting x-rays of my hands and feet, and then—fingers crossed—I’ll have an actual diagnosis and a real treatment plan. Because let me tell you, since returning to Kentucky on Sunday, it’s been like my joints declared war. Both hands and feet are staging a full-on rebellion. I can’t open jars, bottles, or even my medicine bottles. (Which feels like a cruel joke, honestly.)
If things keep progressing at this rate, I need a treatment plan ASAP. Otherwise, I’ll be living on pre-opened snack packs and begging strangers to help me with child-proof caps.
So now, I return to my big dilemma:
Do we drive to Florida tomorrow, or do I hibernate in Kentucky with my heating pad and steroid-induced naps?
What do y’all think? Stay tuned—I’ll update you as soon as I figure out whether I’m hitting the beach or hitting snooze.
