Introduction- Living a Life of Christ in a World of Pain aka My Life with Arthritis

I stare at the orange medicine bottle sitting on the dinner table. My mom is reminding me. Med time.

I pick it up and slowly unscrew the top. Two tiny vials sit inside. I take out one, staring at the unnatural looking yellow liquid floating inside. Without hesitation I uncap the lid. I rub an alcohol swab along the top before doing the same to my right arm.

The next step is even less to my liking. I slowly pull the orange cap off the syringe and stare at the needle. I’ve seen longer, but even so I don’t like staring at the shiny tip too long.

I pull the other cap off the plunger and begin my descent. 10. 20. 30. 40. 50…I watch the little line until it hits 80. Bingo.

The syringe is full of air. I slowly insert it into the vial and push the air out. Once done I begin to fill the small compartment with yellow medication. 80. I hit it once again and take a deep breath. Slowly I lift the needle out of the vial. The hole releases a small spurt of yellow liquid. I shudder.

Carefully I raise my shirtsleeve. I’m standing before a mirror, but I know I can’t watch the needle. I push myself closer to the bathroom door so I can no longer see myself. I grip the needle in an expert fashion and slowly lower it to my skin. I search quietly for the right spot and miss. The needle slides in and I feel a small stab of pain. I must have hit a bad spot. It’s hard trying to inject left-handed.

Now that the needle is below my skin I push the plunger. I do so slowly. Pushing it in too fast is unpleasant. Even so the bad spot twinges as I let the medication into my bloodstream.

I feel the plunger hit the bottom. I am done. Carefully I withdraw the needle. I move back in front of the mirror, watching for bruising. A small bit of the medication has seeped out of the wound. I dab at it with a tissue.

I do not cry. I do not even wince at the pain. I have been doing this for too long to really notice.

Why am I injecting something into my body? Because unlike most people I have a chronic illness.

When most girls turn eighteen they get something special like a car or a cellphone or a laptop. I got something expensive for my eighteenth birthday. I got a diagnosis.

It had all started a year before with an unusual chest pain. I had noticed difficulty breathing throughout the day, feeling a dull ache on the left side of my torso. The pain worsened as time passed.

At the end of the day I could barely walk home. I ended up sitting in the grass practically crying. If not for a friend that had come along, I don’t know how I would have made it home. She called my mom and I got a ride. Noticing how bad the pain was my mom took me to a small clinic.

They were concerned when the heard the words chest pain and trouble breathing, but after a careful examination they told me I had pulled a muscle. It was probably from carrying all those heavy textbooks in my backpack. They told me to take some motrin and rest up a bit. I would heal with time.

The pain receded a little, but it never died away.

Come December my mom grew more concerned. She took me to our doctor. He made me go get a chest x-ray. The results came back on New Years Eve. I had pneumonia.

I went through a month of antibiotics before going in for another check. Nothing had changed. I switched medicines. A month later the results were still the same.

I was sent to a children’s disease specialist. Our appointment brought up another problem that I hadn’t noticed. I was having joint pain.

I had noticed the slight aches and pains since ninth grade. I distinctly remembered going bowling with friends and having to drop out because my hands hurt too much. I had assumed it was just from working them too much. I played volleyball, violin and piano. I also wrote in my spare time. I figured my fingers were exhausted.

All the same the specialist thought the pain in my joints might be linked to my chest. If antibodies were attacking the lining of my lungs, they were likely to attack my joints as well. He also assumed my acne medication was causing the problem. I was taken off that and put through a series of examinations, including about twelve blood tests. The disease specialist had decided I had menocyline induced Lupus. In otherwords, my acne meds were causing my antibodies trouble.

After a month of no acne meds and loads of new pimples I again went in for tests. The levels were higher than they were before I was off the acne medication.

Clearly this was not the problem. Unable to help me further the doctor sent me to a rheumatologist. By the time I got in to see him it was August. My pain had started in September.

After numerous x-rays and some blood tests (honestly I felt like all hemotologists were vampires during my many visits to the lab) he concluded what it was. Polyarticular Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis. Multiple joints and my lungs were being affected by arthritis. I now had a chronic disease.

There are pros and cons to every situation. The pro of living in the 21^st century is that juvenile arthritis is recognized and can be treated effectively. If not for the treatment I would be eventually crippled. The con, however, is that almost all arthritis medications come in injectable form. I hate and fear shots…or rather I hated and feared shots.

So here I am…almost a year later. I am currently on 5 medications. Two are injectable and concentrate on my joint pain and keeping the antibodies in check. One is to ease the pain in my lungs. A fourth is to stop the depression one of my shots causes and the fifth is to stop the stomach problems same said medication has caused.

I am eighteen years old. I have a chronic illness. How could this happen to me?

I have asked this question again and again over the years. Though I have found no clear answers there are many possibilities that have helped ease my confused mind.

Many people reject God because of pain and suffering and evil in the world. I am here to tell a story of how pain and suffering and evil have all brought me closer to God, and have revealed all the more His ultimate goodness and love.

Some people would criticize all that I have written so far. My parents have sometimes complained that I am melodramatic about my disease, and that others go through far worse pain. It is true. There are girls my age who are dying of cancer. There are girls in the world who have horrible painful illnesses that I cannot imagine. There are girls who have diseases that are fatal and have no cure. In truth I have no right to complain. And yet we all bear pain to a certain extent, and this is mine to bear. And for that reason I write only to demonstrate how God has worked in my own diagnosis. I wish only to share His love and peace and strength to those who feel unloved and restless and weak. I wish to lift up my fellow people who have struggled with pain and illness, no matter how minor or small. I wish to show the picture of my God. A God who works for the best, even in pain.