It's fleeing.
I last saw it 4 or so years ago.
4 years ago, I was confused. My hand hurt. Why did it hurt? I hadn't knocked it, I hadn't bumped it. Had I done something in my sleep? Why was it so swollen and why did it hurt so bad?
Doctor 1 wasn't so sure. Maybe it was a sprain? I should see a specialist.
Specialist 1 wasn't so sure. Wear a splint, he said. Do some tests, he said. Take it easy.
Then I got this weird back pain. Bad back pain. I-couldn't-move-without-crying back pain.
Doctor 2 wasn't so sure. Take some Vicodin, he said. And see the physical therapist.
I took the tests, I saw the right people. No clues, no evidence.
More tests, Specialist 1 said. An MRI, he said. So I dragged myself to the lab with the big machine, and I laid there with my arm stretched way above my head for an hour or so.
Oh, that's funny. "You should see Specialist 2," Specialist 1 said.
Specialist 2 was a nice man. I liked specialist 2. And he made things clear.
"Psoriatic arthritis." Arthritis with the bonus of psoriasis. I'd need treatment. Serious treatment.
And that's when it ran away.
I had to switch to Specialist 3. He was nice. He was conservative. And had terrible taste in art.
His treatments didn't work.
I went back to Specialist 2. For a year or more. His treatment was better. His receptionist made me feel cared for.
His treatment makes me violently ill when I'm in the sun for more than 15 minutes. But I wasn't in pain.
Then I moved, into a new town and into the offices of Doctor 3 and Specialist 4.
I don't trust Specialist 4. But my options are few and I went anyhow.
He gave me shots. Painful shots, shots that I made my medic-in-training friend administer to me, because I'm way to squeamish to do it myself.
And then I went to Specialist 5. When my psoriasis was getting so bad that I wanted to rip my skin clear off my muscles, because I was pretty sure that would be less painful.
He dug a hole into my arm. I don't know how deep the hole was, I didn't look. But I smelled it. I smelled the sweet-salty smell of my own flesh burning, when he had to close the wound from the biopsy.
"That's not psoriasis."
What?
"You don't have psoriasis."
Are you sure?
He was sure. He was also pretty sure that I'm allergic to shellfish. Or sharks.
How can you have psoriatic arthritis if my skin problems weren't psoriasis? Why hadn't anyone ever done any tests like that before? Why did they let me stay on supplement that I was allergic to, and never think twice about sending me to another doctor who might know more, if they were unsure?
What now, now that my diagnosis is unsure, and I don't trust a single one of my doctors?
I wish I didn't have to be a big girl all the time.
I last saw it 4 or so years ago.
4 years ago, I was confused. My hand hurt. Why did it hurt? I hadn't knocked it, I hadn't bumped it. Had I done something in my sleep? Why was it so swollen and why did it hurt so bad?
Doctor 1 wasn't so sure. Maybe it was a sprain? I should see a specialist.
Specialist 1 wasn't so sure. Wear a splint, he said. Do some tests, he said. Take it easy.
Then I got this weird back pain. Bad back pain. I-couldn't-move-without-crying back pain.
Doctor 2 wasn't so sure. Take some Vicodin, he said. And see the physical therapist.
I took the tests, I saw the right people. No clues, no evidence.
More tests, Specialist 1 said. An MRI, he said. So I dragged myself to the lab with the big machine, and I laid there with my arm stretched way above my head for an hour or so.
Oh, that's funny. "You should see Specialist 2," Specialist 1 said.
Specialist 2 was a nice man. I liked specialist 2. And he made things clear.
"Psoriatic arthritis." Arthritis with the bonus of psoriasis. I'd need treatment. Serious treatment.
And that's when it ran away.
I had to switch to Specialist 3. He was nice. He was conservative. And had terrible taste in art.
His treatments didn't work.
I went back to Specialist 2. For a year or more. His treatment was better. His receptionist made me feel cared for.
His treatment makes me violently ill when I'm in the sun for more than 15 minutes. But I wasn't in pain.
Then I moved, into a new town and into the offices of Doctor 3 and Specialist 4.
I don't trust Specialist 4. But my options are few and I went anyhow.
He gave me shots. Painful shots, shots that I made my medic-in-training friend administer to me, because I'm way to squeamish to do it myself.
And then I went to Specialist 5. When my psoriasis was getting so bad that I wanted to rip my skin clear off my muscles, because I was pretty sure that would be less painful.
He dug a hole into my arm. I don't know how deep the hole was, I didn't look. But I smelled it. I smelled the sweet-salty smell of my own flesh burning, when he had to close the wound from the biopsy.
"That's not psoriasis."
What?
"You don't have psoriasis."
Are you sure?
He was sure. He was also pretty sure that I'm allergic to shellfish. Or sharks.
How can you have psoriatic arthritis if my skin problems weren't psoriasis? Why hadn't anyone ever done any tests like that before? Why did they let me stay on supplement that I was allergic to, and never think twice about sending me to another doctor who might know more, if they were unsure?
What now, now that my diagnosis is unsure, and I don't trust a single one of my doctors?
I wish I didn't have to be a big girl all the time.
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