where everyone can find World P's.
I’ve been an arthritic since I could remember. No, wait, scratch that. What I remember, is not necessarily having this disorder, but dealing with the questions that come with it.
For example, if I came to school with a bum ankle, my third grade classmates would ask me how I sprained it. Then I would proceed by telling them either “I don’t know” or “I didn’t sprain it, I just woke up with a limp”. Now, how is a third grader supposed to understand that? What’s even worse is that the very next day, I walk around school as if nothing had ailed me the day before. So, then the same witnesses would start assuming maybes that maybe or not. Those maybes become facts when told by a very prominent member of the animal herd known as Grade 3.
Fast forward a few years. Sure, people start accepting the fact that, “OK, maybe he’s not fakin’ it. Maybe there really is something that’s buggin’ him, cause he’s been consistent despite the irregular attacks”. So, Ok, yeah. I never knew what I had until I was 17, and even then I was not sure. Around that time, I went to a doctor and he said that I could have “Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis” but he was not sure. Apparently I was at Adulthood’s doorstep but I had not entered the household yet. He said to come back when I had turned 18 or so and then we could be a bit more positive.
I did not come back when I was 18. I was stubborn, much like today, so I lived life based on the fact that I now knew I had some form of arthritic condition. Knowing that was already a damper for me, so why visit the source of bad news just to tell me more?
More years passed, and the pain would not go away. It came anytime it wanted, because even if I try to regulate the food I take, choosing which are good or bad for me, something still bites me sooner or later. Still, what bites harder is shamefully having to explain to new friends about “why I cannot eat this or that” or “why I limp around like an old geezer”. Even worse still was having to quit the Baseball Team because of it. I did exert as much effort to be better than the mediocre player I was in High School, this thing inside me kept holding me back. “Coach I can’t run today”. “Coach, my wrist is too weak to hold the bat”. “Coach, I can’t even hold the ball, much less throw it”.
It gets hard to explain to teammates that you cannot throw, bat, or run, when you have no actual injury to show for it. This, most especially because, I practically just warmed the benches for most of my “baseball career”. So, despite the fact that I hate being a quitter, I quit the team. I had to give my slot to someone who would have improved as a player rather than forcing to find a way to keep that slot but knowing my condition would not improve.
After a while, it annoyed me too much until I finally visited another doctor and He told me I had “Gouty Arthritis”. Ok, great. Same Shit Different Diaper.
So here I am, still limping about. There are more things that I cannot eat, less things I can. I can’t even resort to veganism because there are a lot of alternafoods that aren’t good for me either. Sometimes, I even entertain weird thoughts of sticking a syringe into the joint and drawing out the “bad blood”. ‘Course, we know that’d never work, else we’d have millions of doctors who cure based on some gaudy thought.
Hay. My swollen ankle says “Hi”.