When I left the house yesterday I made the decision to walk to school, only 300 steps, as my ankles were stiff and I thought it would get them loosened up. Instead, that short walk unleashed a flood of swelling and inflammation from the knees down. Maybe it would have happened if I drove the tiny journey, I'll never know. By ten I was realizing this was a rapid flare up, and by three I was literally hobbling. The bottoms, sides, and tops of both of my feet hurt to the touch to the point where standing was difficult, let alone walking. The classroom slippers were on at 1:30. At 3:30 I did the Tim Conway shuffle home, surprised at how painful it truly was to just...walk. The what if's start filling your head -- "What if this doesn't go away?" "What if I can't stand up anymore?" "What if this is 'it' and I can't even walk to work anymore?" Then, as quick as they come, they go. I got home, my shoes are off, I can breathe, and while my dogs greet me at the door wanting to go for a walk, they are happy enough outside.
The first thing I did was hit the medicine cabinet for more predinisone. As I am trying really hard not to gain more weight, and consistently try to even lose some, I'd tapered down by only one measly pred milligram on Sunday. One. From 15mg to 14mg. And again on Monday, I took the 14mg. And this is what my body did. Prednisone is an evil drug, but clearly it is surpressing inflammation and I have to accept that it is part of my gig for now. I took a tiny 1mg tablet, and a couple hours later could slowly get the dogs out for their usual walk. When I came back, and all other things were done, I stitched for ninety minutes before bed. Ahhhhhhh. As I saw the thread patterns grow across the textured quilted surface, I felt an inner energy grow, too. Feet be damned, my hands are ok. My Mo Hayder book provided a bizarre soundtrack of words, Hapi and Kizzy happily playing at their stations at my sides, and the rhythm of the stitch helped me regain my own sense of stability. Ahhhhh. Therapy. Because I didn't give in to the pain and sleep it off after school, as I really wanted to do, I was able to keep moving and the pred gave me a tad of energy back, too. That drug isn't all evil.
Here's an art piece I love that I saw in the UK many years ago. It was part of an exhibit called "Cradle to the Grave" in 2003 at the British Museum. Really neat, but horrid at the same time. A massive scroll of fabric with the pills that the average man and woman would take in a lifetime sewn into little pockets. Huge amount of chemical ick. More about the artists here. Cheers.