A Different Answer

I prayed for help with my rheumatoid arthritis. So why was I still in such agony?

- MARION BOND WEST

I WAS DRIVING HOME AND THINKING over and over, There’s nothing wrong with me. This, despite the doctor, saying there was, and then the bombshell he dropped: I would probably have to start giving myself shots.

A little while earlier I had sat across the desk from a pencil-thin rheumatologist wearing a blue button-down shirt. He had already advised me that the first appointment would take an hour and a half. I liked his messy desk; it resembled mine at home. I glanced down at the chart where he pointed. “Your X-rays and blood work indicate that you are in the early stages of rheumatoid arthritis,” he said. “I’m going to prescribe some pills for you, but I expect you’ll decide to give yourself regular injections.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, smiling politely. My thinking was: So I’ve been diagnosed with RA. That doesn’t mean that I actually have it. I took the prescription for pills and made another appointment for three months later. Well, whatever.

I pulled into our driveway at home and felt an increasingly familiar twinge in my hand when I turned off the ignition. Ow! Inside the house, I dropped my keys and purse onto the kitchen counter. My husband, Gene, was full of questions. I put him off. “Here, let me see the pills you’ve got,” he insisted. He sat down and began reading all the detailed paperwork the pharmacy had given me. I hate directions of any kind.