Support Isn’t A Competition.

I read a great quote online yesterday, which prompted me to write this blog today. It was one of those posters that Word Porn posts daily on my Facebook feed, and instead of scrolling down past it like I do usually, this one caught my eye. Here it is…


This one really spoke to me, because I feel like I deal with this on a regular basis due to the nature of my disease. And this particular statement I feel like I’ve literally been living.

Rheumatoid Disease has plagued my body for three and a half years now. Endless years, it seems sometimes, that I’ve dealt with this indescribable pain, whom no one can fix. I’ve tried so many medical treatments, pharmaceutical and homeopathic. I’ve attempted every fad diet out there, all proclaiming to be the “cure-all” for my disease. You name it, and I bet I’ve tried it! Even going as far as using essential oils, sleeping with healing rocks, and attempting to meditate the pain away.

I have spent countless hours in frigid medical offices, waiting for yet another “check-up” appointment. Or another visit where my doctor will inform me that now do I not only have the worst case of Rheumatoid Disease for someone my age in Hawaii, but also of all their colleagues’ patients on the mainland as well. Gee, that’s some great news, I’ve always wanted to be the best at something. I could never have imagined it would be concerning a debilitating, incurable disease. I’m so lucky!

I’ve spent more time with my Rheumatologist and PCP than I have with some of my closest friends. Truth be told, that could also be said for most of my family members as well. And I’m not saying that’s something bad, it’s just my reality. My week’s schedule is usually broken down in three main priorities: first comes doctors appointments, then work related training/events/prospecting, then family time, and friends and social engagements can be worked in after that.

If you really look at my priorities, you can also see how important my health is to me. I’m 34, about to be 35 in one month. I don’t want my disease to define me, and to accomplish that, I need to work hard at finding a way to coexist with it. I have to figure out how to live with my disease in a way where it doesn’t rule my life and dictate who I am as a person. And to do that, I am 100% committed to finding a medical treatment plan that works for me.

My second priority is my financial independence. I now receive a small monthly siphon from Social Security, but it is nowhere near enough to live off of. So I had to find a part time job that I could do without hurting myself, or worsening my disease. That came in the form of direct sales with Rodan + Fields, which fortunately fits my needs perfectly. I work from home, hell, most days I work from bed, and I make my own hours. I’m my own boss, and have no one above me causing me stress. It’s almost completely social media and word of mouth based, and works perfectly with my retail background. I’ve only just started, so I’m not making any real money yet, but I will in time, and I’ll be financially secure for my future. And the best part is that I love my job. I love helping people, and making them happy. So, really, it’s a Win/Win.

My third priority is my family. No matter what is going on in one’s life, it’s always nice to have family to fall back on. Spending time with both sides of mine (I was a child of divorce, so I get two), is something I try to make time for regularly. Now, I’m not saying that my family relationships are perfect, far from it. But at the end of the day your family doesn’t change. You don’t get to swap them out if you have a fight, or don’t see eye to eye. With family you’re committed to the good, the bad, and the ugly. And I have dealt with all of those memories from both sides of mine.

Although, this is where the aforementioned quote comes in to play.

I understand that dealing with people with disease is hard for some. Knowing a friend, or even an acquaintance, who is going through an intense medical situation can be tough. Even dealing with a lesser medical situation, like maybe reoccurring headaches or acid reflux, can be hard for some to process. We don’t know how to react, or how much empathy or sympathy to have. It’s daunting for some people to deal with those who are sick. And even more so if we are talking about incurable diseases, cancer, or any other life threatening medical issue.

In my own medical journey I’ve actually lost friends because of my illness. Not because they were scared of “catching it”, Rheumatoid Disease isn’t contagious. But mostly because they were at a loss of how to handle it. They didn’t understand the disease, and why I was so sick, and why after all my treatments I wasn’t getting better. And instead of asking me about it, and attempting to understand what I was going through, or asking how they could be supportive, they instead pulled away. Yes, it initially hurt my feelings, but at the end of the day I have learned that I’d rather surround myself with supportive people. People who want to be in my life, not those who feel they have to be. I think that goes for pretty much everyone, healthy or not.

I’ve personally found, though, that support can be a double-edged sword. You would think that anyone going through an intense illness, like mine, would welcome support of any kind. Through the assumption that any help at all is still helpful, right? WRONG. Support and help is only helpful if it comes from a good place. However, in my personal experience, support is often not without strings.

I welcome and appreciate any kind of support towards my person, my illness, my newfound career, and my journey in general, as long as that support is given freely. What I mean by this is that it’s given without expectations of a reward, or a guilt-laden reciprocation. Just like the quote says, “I don’t engage in acts of kindness to be rewarded later,” I don’t want to receive support with strings attached. An example of this might be a ‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch your back scenario”. Or making comments like, “Well I helped you with that one thing last week, so….”

No one wants to feel like they’re being used. But expectations put on support is just that. It’s support with strings attached, and I don’t want any part of that. If you need help with something, just ask. But thinly veiling it as “support” basically makes the receiver feel like shit.

If you want to do something nice for me, or anyone, then do it. Not to get something back from it, or to make yourself feel better by showing others how “supportive” you are. If you want to be seen as a good person, then do good things. And leave it at that. Be kind. Be generous. Be good. Not for others. For YOU.

Giving me support in my illness isn’t a competition on who can do it better. The best way to support me while I’m going through this hell is to just be there. Ask me how I am. Ask me if there’s anything you can do. Ask me if I need help. Ask me if I need a ride somewhere. And listen when I tell you. Listen to what I’m saying to understand, not to reply.

I feel like everything has become a lie recently. Like suddenly I’m this vessel to be used to make others look and feel better. Like “Hey, did you notice, I’m being supportive?” Or, “Look at this picture I posted of me being so supportive!”

Supporting me isn’t a competition. I’m a human being, dealing with an incurable, debilitating disease. I’m just trying to make it through each day, each week, and each month, without landing back in the hospital. I just want a life I can be proud of, and get up for each and every day. Want to feel good about yourself, too? Do something good without thinking about who it benefits, and I’ll continue to do the same.



I’ll see your seeing-eye dog, and raise you two fuzzy kitty bombs

Today I read a post on about the love and comfort that pets can give us when we are ill. And I agree, that couldn’t be more true. Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like without the comfort and love that my two feline fur balls give me day to day.

When I first adopted Astrid and Aureus, they were only four months old, and had personalities wildly different from how they are now. I had just made the (super unfortunate) decision to move in with my partner at the time, and we had made the (very compulsive) decision to adopt cats after seeing a sign for Humane Society Adoptions at our local Petco. Looking back on that day now, I’m surprised I couldn’t see that as the beginning of our end… But that’s another story for a day that involves tequila and the reminiscing of bad decisions.

Anyway, we were at Petco, and they were allowing people to play and pet the cats in a small room at the back of the store. My partner took an immediate liking to a very friendly little ginger cat. He sat holding the tabby in his lap, unable and unwilling to move for over an hour. It was love at first sight. We decided then and there that the ginger was coming home with us, but I hadn’t found a second cat that pulled on my heart strings. I didn’t want the first cat to be lonely, and I  didn’t want to bring home a second cat later on. If we were going to get cats, we were getting two at the same time, so as not to have to deal with introducing two cats from different shelters later. Cats could get very territorial, and introducing a new cat to a house that already has one is a long stressful nightmare.

So I spent time holding each of the other eight cats in the room, trying to decide which one would be a good fit for me. Most of them were 3-6 months old kittens, and had just been “fixed” the day before. And there was one older black cat, whom was adorable, but we were there for kittens. Finally I spied a very shy black and white cat, hiding behind one of the cat trees. She was very skittish, and the Adoption Agent told me she was a rescued feral kitten who’d been living under a dumpster. While my partners cat was an “abandonment”, given back to the Humane Society once he’d grown out of the small kitten phase. Tears filled my eyes and the choice was made. These two were destined to come home with us.


A year later, when I moved out of that apartment (and relationship), both cats came with me. Aureus, the ginger male, and Astrid, the black and white “Poky little kitty”. They’ve been with me ever since. Aureus, who originally was a super cuddly love bug, has grown into a large and lazy ginger tom. And Astrid, my shy and skittish little girl, is now Mistress of the House, always looking for a cuddle and some treats.

I love my two fur balls, and not only because I’ve always been a cat person, and have kept cats since I was a small child. But because they are really the most empathetic and loving creatures to have around. My cats always  know when I’m not feeling well. In fact, on quite a few occasions, they’ve woken me in the night when they’ve sensed something was wrong. It’s usually just before I’m about to have a pain flare, or be hit with a severe migraine. Because of their kitty alerts, I’ve been able to take an extra dose of steroids, or pain killers. Or I’ll get up to use the bathroom and grab a full glass of water in case it’s hours before I’ll be able to get up again.

They aren’t just supportive in the practical sense. Loving my cats, watching them grow, and sharing their warm kitty purrs, well it just puts me in a good mood. When I’m down because the pain is depressing, or I’m feeling alone because of the nature of my disease, I know I can always come home to these two. No matter what, I always have my loving fur bombs to cuddle and love. They lift my spirits, sometimes when nothing else can.

I know a lot of people put stock in how great dogs are. Seeing-eye dogs are great for the blind. They have those dogs that are trained to sense when their owners blood sugar is low, for those with diabetes. And that’s great for those people. But what I think would really do the world good, is more cats for comfort. There’s nothing better than holding a purring cat. Or feeling sleep for an afternoon nap and waking up to see that your two cats have joined you for shared fuzzy snooze time. There’s something fantastically comforting about your cat pushing their butt under your head so that you can have your very own purring feline pillow.

Being sick can get really hard to handle some times, and I mean mentally as well as physically. But I think every day gets a little easier to handle as long as I have my two furry kitty bombs by my side.

Except when I get a tail in the mouth… that’s not always so fun..


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Hands… I only get two, so back off

There comes a time in everyone’s chronic pain journey where they’ve had enough of something. It may be that they are sick of the lower back pain that tortures them daily, or the migraines, or knee swelling. Point is, everyone has at least one spot that’s the worst with their pain condition. For me, it’s my hands.

When I was first diagnosed with Rheumatoid Disease, my hands were where I could really see the effects of the condition on my body. In fact, to this day, if I want to know how bad a flare is going to be I look at my hands. If it’s going to be a bad one, they will be super inflamed, often enlarged by the swelling around my joints. And man will they hurt!

Like today.

It’s actually been awhile since I’ve experienced such an excruciating flare in my hands. After my really bad chemotherapy experience in July, I’ve been dealing with more widespread pain, instead of just one localized area. Truth be told, I kinda hoped that after my body freaked out on the chemo, that the chemical makeup of my body would have changed. So many things went wrong with my body after that experience, so I assumed that since I hadn’t had a hand flare in awhile, that maybe they were gone for good.

It’s nice to dream.

It sucks when that dream bubble bursts….

For me, that was around 4am… I hadn’t been asleep that long, as I’d been battling insomnia for a few nights in a row (another story for another day), and had only just drifted off around 2am. I knew the pain was present before I even opened my eyes. Even my fat ginger tabby knew something was up. Cats are very intuitive and empathetic, and my cats always know when I’m having a flare. This morning, Aureus knew, and had decided to help by backing his furry butt into my face as some sort of kitty cat “feel better” hug. It didn’t quite have the effect I was looking for.

I’ve had my disease for three and a half years now, so I’m very familiar with pain and inflammation. I’ve tried so very many different medications, treatments, remedies, and was of thinking, in order to get rid of this awfulness. But some days, like today, the anger really takes over and I get to thinking, “Why body why?!”

Having pain in your hands is the WORST. You really take for granted how often you use your hands, and how difficult life can be without full use of them. Right now, my right hand is swollen to the this thickness of a tennis ball. I kid you not, that’s how far my hand is. The pain runs deep too, all the way down to the bone, causing a great ache.

The pain is so severe in fact, that you can’t use your hand for everyday things. Need to turn a door knob? Sorry, not going to happen. Want to pick up a book or a mug of tea? Well, you can’t, you don’t have enough strength. Want to write your blog with your stylus? It’s going to have to be voice dictation today, your hand can’t even grip a pen.

I only have two hands! If they’re wounded or sore or broken (gosh I hope it’s not broken), well then I’m just S.O.L. And that’s just another painful, and beyond frustrating complication of having this disease. You’d think your body would let you catch a break some time. I mean you only get TWO HANDS. Let them live pain free please!

Come on body, do me this one favor. Pretty please?

Chemotherapy can kiss my a**

For those who know me, I have a severe case of Rheumatoid Disease. A case so severe in fact that I’ve had doctors tell me to my face that they’ve never seen test results like mine, and going as far as to say I’m the “worst patient they’ve ever dealt with”. Yeah, thanks for kicking me when I’m down…

When I was diagnosed over three years ago my doctors used to throw around phrases like “When you go into remission…” and “Don’t worry, you’ll only be on steroids for a few months”. We were so hopeful and optimistic back then. So blindly optimistic.

But now after the years of disappointing x-rays and blood tests, failure after failure of one medication to the next, and 95+ pounds of weight gain from the steroids I was only supposed to be on for a few months, well that blind optimism feels more like blind stupidity. Of course, I know that these things are not my fault. I have an incurable disease that has taken a life of its own. My life, to be exact. It’s claimed my body for its own, stuck a flag in my inflamed flesh and renamed it Rheumatoid Disease Poster Child. What a sneaky bitch.

And the worst part of all of this is I know it’s winning. Every day that I wake up and feel like shit, knowing that before I even open my eyes that it’s going to be a very bad day, I know that it’s winning. Even on the less often days where I wake up feeling kind of okay, when I’m able to shower and get dressed without the aid of another, and actually make breakfast and enjoy eating it, deep down inside I know it’s still winning. Because that’s just one day in a sea of bad ones.

Two months ago, after a year of deliberating, I made the decision to try a very aggressive form of Chemotherapy to treat my disease. The reason it took me a year to decide was because of a side effect that was really really scary. Sure, there were the usually chemo side effects that also didn’t sound great…nausea, vomiting, hair loss, rapid weight loss or gain, possible infections, possible cancers, the list really goes on… But the worst one of all was that it had been known to cause brain tumors in some patients. Now of course they told me this was rare and only happened in a small percentage, but my issue was that I am ALWAYS  that small percentage. Since I was little I always ended up being that rare statistic that no one accounted for. The “anomaly”. And I feared if I took this chemotherapy, I would get this rare brain tumor.

It wasn’t until we had exhausted every other medication and treatment out there, and failed, that I started to seriously think about doing the same thing chemotherapy. And in the end, I agreed, and set up my infusion date. Because of the strength of the medication and the weakness of my own body, the infusion would be given over the course of 6 hours. There would be two sessions, two weeks apart, and then I’d wait up to six months for the next one.

On the day of my infusion I was pretty nervous. I got over it real quick though when I was shocked and surprised to find that my father had decided to visit me at the infusion clinic. Til this day he had not attended one doctors appointment, treatment session, or joined my mom at the ER during the many times that I was there. And yet, chemotherapy seemed to be what broke the camels back. Perhaps, he had finally realized how very real and very life threatening my disease was. Or perhaps there was no good surf that day..

During his two hour visit, I went through a few blood tests, and waited around while they poked and prodded me with needles, finally finding a port site they liked for my infusion. Once he left, the infusion started. And the last thing I saw before I fell into a heavy drug induced nap, was my mom by my side, holding my hand in support, as she did everytime I lay in a hospital bed.

When I woke six hours later they were removing the infusion port, and soon after I was hobbling down to the unisex bathroom to change out of my comfort clothes and back into regular street clothes. Mom and I picked up something to eat on the way back to my house, and once there I fell back asleep and continued to sleep for another 15 hours. The next morning I vomitted for the first time, which wasn’t all that surprising, given the amount of chemo that went into my body the day before. But besides that I felt fine. Better than fine actually. I believe I even saw a movie with a friend that day. I remembered thinking, “Well this isn’t so bad, I got this!” How I only wish I could have remained in that happy state.

The next morning I woke with a jolt and I knew something was wrong. My mom had come over to check up on me, and before I could even greet her I was in the bathroom throwing up. As soon as I emerged I started to feel a pain in my chest and a tightness in my throat. Fearing that I was having a bad reaction to the chemotherapy, Mom gave me some baby aspirin and water and we waited. A few mins later I was fine, and she took me out to breakfast to get something in my stomach. We had planned to go shopping afterwards, but I felt so tired after eating that I opted to go home and get back in bed. I fell asleep within moments.

Later that afternoon, I woke not too long after receiving a text from Mom asking if I was ok. Even while still just laying in bed, I knew that I wasn’t. I asked her to come over right away. Over the course of the next twenty minutes I had what felt like a heart attack. I knew better though, this had happened before. I have reoccurring Pericarditis, a painful condition where the sac around your heart becomes inflamed and fills with fluid, essentially drowning your heart. The process feels exactly like a heart attack and can last for up to an hour, and can occur several times in a day if untreated.

The pain was excruciating. I couldn’t breathe, it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I felt nauseated, but I could t throw up. My jaw was stuff and unmoving. And my chest felt like thousands of needles were being slowly pushed into it. By the time my mom arrived an hour later, I was dressed with a bag packed, ready to got to the Emergency Room.

When we first got there, we were not met with anyone who seemed to understand the concept of “emergency”.  And it wasn’t until I started to have what appeared to be another heart attack in one of the waiting rooms that they did finally take me seriously.  Or maybe it was the fact that was my mom was crying and shoutings and begging one of the nurses to look at me and help me.  Finally after what seemed like forever, although maybe it was just an hour, I was taking into a room and given an EKG.  After another long wait, I was taken into a room that was very long and filled with many people, divided by curtains.  Doctors and nurses came and went, I was given a CAT scan and many blood tests, and finally after a very long time the doctor came back with the results. Yes, it was Pericarditis, and No, I could not leave.

I was admitted into the Observation Ward overnight. Because it was a Saturday, and the machine that could in-depth test my heart could only be operated on a Monday, I was told I would be there until at least then. 48 hours in the hospital, it would be my longest stay at Queens yet.

It was during my second night that shit really hit the fan. I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and I guess the strain on my heart was just too much for my body to take. It started as just a flutter of activity, like I had walked up a long flight of stairs, or had a lot of caffeine. But it progresses to a sharp stabbing feeling within moments. I rang for the nurses, and after what felt like a ridiculous amount of time, someone finally came to check on me.

As a side note: The Queens Observation Ward had the worst response team ever. Everyone working there is way too relaxed, and they seemed genuinely surprised if one of their patients needs actual help. Which by the way, is why all of us were there.

While I’m not ready to talk about what happened to me that night on a personal level, I can tell you that the doctors informed me that I was close to death. Had I not been attended sooner and given medication I may have not survived. The last thing I remember is the beeping of the heart rate machine as it slowed and nurses yelling at each other. Everything went white and the next thing I saw was a dark room. At the time I thought I was dead, but in fact I was just waking up in my darkened room after I had passed out from the pain. Once stabilized, the nurses shot me up with a ton of pain killers and I had a deep snooze. It was the next day that they moved me to the Queens Heart Ward, where I would stay for another 7 days.

I won’t bore you with the details of my long hospital stay. There were some really bad days, like when the doctors accidentally caused an involuntary “colon cleanse”, or when I spent hours on end puking into a bucket- God, I hate chemotherapy. And there were some better moments, like when my family visited, or when my Mom found a volunteer Harpist to play for me in my room during lunch one day.

After 9 days of being stuck in that awful place, I finally begged hard enough and my doctor released me to my mother, as long as I promised to stay with her for the first night. They really did want me to stay for a few more days, but I feared if I did I might lose my mind. And I missed my apartment and my cats so badly. Although my Mom did visit them everyday and she let me FaceTime with them so I could see their adorable furry faces. I cried a lot after those calls.

After all that time in the hospital, my doctors (Cardiologists and GP’s) concluded that I had Reoccurring Pericarditis (Duh!) but that it was going down so I could be released on my own recognizance. I was going to have to take a medicine called Colchicine for six months to help prevent Pericarditis as well. I’d been on it before, and luckily there weren’t any side effects. I also had to take a ten day regimen of Aspirin. Yuck. That coupled with the chemotherapy, still very active in my body, brought on heavy waves of nausea and vomiting that didn’t seem to rest.

I spent the first two weeks out of the hospital sleeping constantly, and vomitting every other moment. I lost 28 pounds from two weeks before the chemo when my pain was so bad that I couldn’t cook or eat, to three weeks after the hospital when the sight of food still made me sick. While not the healthiest way to lose weight, it was the only victory out of an otherwise horrendous month.

It’s been just over a month since the fateful day when I had my first chemotherapy infusion, that Kickstarter this awfulness. To this day I still got nauseated every now and then, and vomit 2-3 times a week. From what I can tell, the first infusion did nothing for my pain, and I’m in the middle of an “active flare”. I never did get the second infusion, half because I was too sick during the time it was scheduled and other reason…well that’s to be continued…

My Pericarditis is under control for now though I’m still prone get it at any time of i change my medications rapidly or start something intense like chemotherapy. Apparently my body is very against trying new things that could be good for it. My Rheumatoid Disease is still trying to stake its claim, holding tight to that flag, trying to make me its own. Comments will be made as it progresses.


The deafening darkness

Blackness. Or maybe it was all a bright white. Maybe there was no color at all. Just silence. Maybe that quiet seemed like it would never end.

All I could concentrate on with pain. It seemed like pain was all around me, infiltrating every bone in my body, every piece of flesh. It was so dark and solemn, everything seemed so far away and out of my reach, and yet it was deafening in the darkness.

Where was this place that I had been brought to? Had I closed my eyes and found the place that I would breathe my last breath? Was this the gate that I was meant to cross? How did I even get here? How did any of us get here? Was I meant to be here at all?

Noise. Shouting, machines whirring, everything seemed so loud. It was too loud. The pain hurt. The noise hurt. I just wanted everything to stop. I was ready for it all to stop…

Vision blurred. I saw people running around me, they’re fuzzy outlines making no sense to me as my eyes opened and closed. The pain. The pain was deafening. I just wanted it to stop. I was ready for it to stop. I just wanted it to stop.

I close my eyes, and left them closed for a while. I opened them again, blurred lines still running about… I closed them. Open. Close. They moved with the time of the beeping machines around me, alerting people to my heart rate as it slowed, slowed, slowed…

Finally, the pain overwhelmed me all at once. My breath stopped, my arms went limp, my body had decided… My eyes closed and all I saw was white. It was everywhere. And I was everywhere. I just wanted everything to stop, and it did. But only for a moment.

Only for a moment. 

An update, with blog soon to follow…

For all my readers, I know it’s been some time since I’ve posted a blog. I just wanted to let everyone know that it’s not because I’ve abandoned my writing, but because my health has taken a serious decline. I just got out of a long hospital stay where I was admitted for heart complications related to my severe pain disease. I will be writing about the experience soon, once I’ve gathered my thoughts together and am able to express them with a little more clarity.
Thank you for your patience!

Working while disabled…. Oh, the irony

It blows my mind sometimes to remember that I’ve been disabled for over three years now, and out of work for two. It’s been a really rough lifestyle change for me, especially because I used to be so independent. If someone told me three years ago that I’d one day be living off food stamps and a stipend of $250 a month, well, I would have laughed in their face.

Before I got sick, I lived a really active life. I had a full social calendar: I spent time with friends, went to the beach nearly every weekend, walked the Makapu’u Lighthouse trail and climbed the 99 step staircase on Diamond Head,  had family dinners occasionally, and travelled as much as my income would allow. And while I wasn’t rolling in Benjamin’s, I lived a comfortable life. I ate out at my fave restaurants often, had no problem buying those cute new shoes at Ross, and enjoyed going to the movies any day of the week, not just the $6 discount ones. So you can imagine how very hard it was to go from being happily financially independent, to relying on food stamps to fill my fridge (though to be honest, I never got enough monthly to really “fill” it). Or to have to feel helpless each month when I tried to pay $500 worth of bills with only $250 of financial aid. It was rough. And I knew the only way I could get through this new enforced lifestyle change was to apply for Social Security benefits. So I applied. And waited. And waited…

After two years of filing paperwork with my lawyer, gathering unending medical records, and not to mention dealing with multiple doctors and ER visits, and countless days of being stuck in bed in pain, I was finally granted Social Security benefits on May 11, 2016.

However, it was a bit anticlimactic, in the sense that my new Medicare benefits wouldn’t start until the end of November, pushing back my surgery for the much needed pain pump. The entire reason I was able to be seen by a judge so soon was due to a letter my doctor wrote, outlining that it was medically necessary that I get a pain pump surgically implanted. And not only was it necessary, but it needed to be done asap. I believe that letter was how I was granted a hearing after having only waited two years. I’d heard of residents waiting up to four years for theirs, so I knew I should count my doctor as one of my many blessings. And while I’m very happy and grateful that I was granted Medicare, as my state funded insurance wouldn’t pay for the pump, I was stressed that they told me it couldn’t start til the end of November. That’s 5 months away! What part of “medically necessary” and “needed ASAP” had gotten lost in translation? And on top of this great and also not so great news, I’d found out what my monthly cash allowance would be…

Now, usually when I’m told about a money allowance I’m going to be given, I always round down. I never count my chickens, and while optimistic, I usually tend to expect the worse. That way I’m almost always pleasantly surprised.

When my lawyer and I originally went over my case, and she explained to me how things worked, an amount was mentioned. I was really happy with said amount and foolishly based all my future plans around it. However, when my Social Security benefits were finally granted and I was told how much financial aid I’d be receiving, I was in for a rude awakening. The amount my lawyer had originally mentioned was no longer on the table. The financial aid I was to receive was barely more than I’d been getting from the state for the last two years. I felt sick to my stomach as I realized that there was no way I would be able to live off of it without finding some sort of supplemental income.

Reality set in that despite the fact that I was deemed “disabled and unable to work” by the federal government, I would have to do something to make some extra income, or I’d be facing homelessness again. I had wanted to close my donation fund once I’d been granted Social Security, but decided to leave it active for the friends and family that still wanted to help support me financially when they could.

But that would still not be enough to keep my head above water. I ended up doing some research and learned that I could work part time, as long as I didn’t make too much money monthly, and that a supplemental income wouldn’t affect my benefits. It seemed the only realistic option for me to do. But what job could I possibly get with my current ailment? I was deemed “unable to work” for a reason. There was no way I could return to an office job. I mean I’d just spent two years arguing that I was unable to work because of my disease, and now I’d have to work anyway just to be able to make rent?

I knew no matter how hard things got, I absolutely positively needed to keep my apartment. It was my home base! A place where I felt safe and comfortable. Not to mention that I also medically needed it due to the nature of getting my pain pump in December. Patients receiving the pump needed to live in a stable environment (not couch surfing) , and have their own quiet and comfortable space. My doctor had told me he’d denied people in the past to receive the pump due to unfit living conditions. I’d worked too long and hard to get these benefits only to be denied the one thing I needed so desperately. 5 months away or no.

For the past couple years my older sister Emma had been selling a high end skin care line through direct sales. While it had started as a part-time gig that she did for a little extra cash on top of her full-time day job, her leadership skills and drive to do well took it to a new level. She ended up buying herself out of her full-time gym franchise, so that she could turn her part-time gig into a career. Because the product was only available through word of mouth, social media, and direct sales, it was easy to make a lot of money, and quickly. My sister went from a struggling gym owner, with having barely any time to spend with her sons and family, to a successful stay at home mom, with money in the bank, and a smile on her face.

When she heard that I needed a part-time job that could allow me to work from home, on my own schedule and time frame, and where I could be my own boss, she knew that her new career path was the route for me to take as well. I did some research, and it looked like this kind of work was acceptable for the Social Security administration, and it seemed like really the only kind of job that I could handle. It would be direct sales that I could do from home, and even from the comfort of my own bed if I wasn’t feeling well. I could make my own hours, and be my own boss. And the most important thing of all: it would put a little bit of much needed income in my pocket to supplement my small financial aid benefit.

Now, don’t get me wrong, the irony is not lost on me that I’ve been working hard with my lawyer to get Social Security benefits because I can’t work a regular job. But I feel like the federal government really forces us to have to do that, because we aren’t receiving enough financial aid to live off of. How am I supposed to pay rent, utilities, phone bill, medical bills, and life expenses with well under $1000 a month? It’s impossible. Especially in Hawaii.

And so here I am…

I’m supposed to be so excited that I’ve been awarded Social Security, and I am. But it’s anticlimactic. Because despite being awarded this necessary life assistance, it’s just not enough to sustain.

And here I am….with Social Security financial benefits, to start towards the end of summer.

And here I am….with Medicare medical benefits, to start at the end of November.

And here I am….faced with starting a new job after having been unable to work for two years because of my extremely debilitating, and painful disease….

Yay me?

It’s day two since I started my “new job”, and I’ve been in too much pain to even get through the welcome packet, and watch the training video. I can’t even fathom what other people are forced to do to supplement their own incomes. Not everyone has a supportive sister that just happens to have an in on a direct sales job that you can do in your pyjamas. What must they have to put their bodies through in order to stay afloat?

Is this what you wanted Social Security? Is this what you had in mind for me when you decided on that ridiculously low  financial aid amount? For me to fight for benefits, only to have to still work with them to survive?

Oh the irony.




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The Reality of a Full-time Patient

Yesterday started like almost every other day. I woke up around 6:30am, cringing before I even opened my eyes. The pain wasn’t too bad, but it was definitely there. Probably coming in at a 5/10, if I had to gauge it.
I stretched. Wiggling my fingers and toes, twisting my torso from right to left, attempting to pinpoint exactly where the pain was at its strongest, and where it’s weakest point was as well. Knees, it was definitely in my knees. Feet, yep, they were swollen too. Fingers, however, weren’t as bad as usual. All in all, there was a chance I might be able to have an okay day.
In fact, by the time I’d had a shower, got dressed, had my coffee, and even put a bit of makeup on, I was feeling pretty good. Or at least good by my standards.

I had plans to meet my mom in town if my body was feeling up to it, and since my limbs seemed on board with the idea of leaving the confines of my bed, I left the house eagerly by late morning.
It was when I was standing on the curb at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, that I realized this act felt very similar to when I used to head to work. Bag under my arm, ear buds in my ears playing my latest favorite Pandora playlist, pep in my step… I mean to any passerby I probably looked like a regular woman.

When was the last time I’d felt like this? When was the last time I felt any semblance of normalcy in my life?

I traversed two blocks to the bus stop, where I boarded an express bus headed into downtown. I flashed my pass to the bus driver who gave me a familiar look before waving me past. I knew the look all too well, as I’d seen it more often than not since acquiring my disability bus pass a year and a half before. It was the “I wonder how she got that pass?” look. A look that was often also seen on the faces of other bus riders when I took a seat in the “elderly and disabled” section. Though that look was usually accompanied with a scornful frown, or an exasperated sigh, and a rolling of the eye that was supposed to convey their outrage that a young woman like myself would dare sit in their section.

Yesterday, however, I was feeling peppy enough to walk past the disapproving eyes of the elderly, and secured myself a primo seat in the back of the bus. And there I stayed for 21 minutes until I reached my destination. And once there, I hopped out of my seat, a little painfully I might add, and traded the cold air of the bus for the sticky, humid air of Downtown Honolulu.

Instantly feeling hot and uncomfortable, I walked across the street and into my favorite discount store, eager to browse the racks and abuse their free air conditioning. It was only midday by this point, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit fatigued. Sure, I’d been awake since the early morning, but I hadn’t done much in that time, had I? Just slowly gotten ready for the day, had a coffee, and caught a bus…so why was I so tired?

I called my mom to get an eta on her whereabouts, and after figuring out that I had about thirty minutes to spare, I headed to my favorite local coffee shop for a much needed latte. It was only a four block walk from the discount store I’d been in, but gosh did it feel longer? And the sun, the hot, stifling summer sun…there was no relief from its piercing rays. Why weren’t there any benches or places to sit downtown? Not one shaded park bench or concrete slabs to lean against so one might catch their breath or hide from the blinding light. When did the town get stingy on places to sit?

By the time I’d reached Brue, my favorite coffee bar, I felt weak in the knees, and not in a romantic swoon kind of way. My feet throbbed, my mouth was as dry as desert, and I was “sweating bullets” as my friend liked to coin it. I felt hot, dizzy, and exhausted. Was it always this hot? Was I just out of exercise, or did those city blocks seem much larger than before?

However, I was much happier once inside the doors of my beloved caffeine haven. Recognizing me, the barista started my order before I’d even reached the counter, and after delighting in the fact that I’d finally filled up my stamp card, meaning that my next cup was free, I settled down to enjoy my favorite latte. 

By the time I met up with my mom I was feeling much better, caffeine always has that affect on me, and looked forward to spending some quality mother/daughter time. Preferably from the comfort of her air conditioned Mercedes. Unfortunately, she needed to make a quick 30-min stop at the local tire shop to get her back tires replaced, first. Assuring me it would be quick, she had an appointment afterall, we headed to the (thankfully) cool waiting room of the establishment, to wait.

Tick. Tock.

I took my midday medications with a sip of water from the community cooler. Thank goodness the water was cold as ice.

Tick. Tock.

Customers walked in. Customers walked out. My knees started to ache, swelling up from the heat, and stiffening from sitting on a hard chair for too long.

I dozed once, twice, three times.

Tick. Tock.

My fingers started to swell, and my feet felt tight against the restraints of my slipper straps. Gosh it was hot, why was it so hot.. I left the no longer cool waiting room and took a lap around the parking lot, trying to figure out what was taking so long with our car. A glance at my iPhone clock and I cringed, realizing we’d already been there for an hour. So much for it taking no time at all with a scheduled appointment…

By the time they relinquishedour car back to us it had been two and a half hours! My entire body by this point was begging to be put out of its misery. I’d only been sitting in a slightly air conditioned room and yet everything ached like I’d just run a marathon. At what point had my flare started? I didn’t even know. All I knew was how I felt now- hot, sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, with a dull yet painful ache widespread throughout my limbs.  Because of our unfortunate change of plans for the day, mom and I grabbed a quick bite (as we’d missed lunchtime while sitting in tire shop hell), and then I headed home for what I knew was going to be a hard nap.

Crawling up onto my bed was brutal. My limbs weren’t impressed with every way I tried to get comfortable. They were too tight, too achey, and the exhaustion didn’t help as I’d have liked. It took too long for me to find a comfortable position in which to arrange my tired and sore body parts. Finally, after what seemed like hours, fatigue ruled that my body was going to sleep and that was final!


Late last night I thought back through the day, and I pondered at how different my life was now compared to when I used to work. When I was employed I used to rise around 7am and reluctantly head into the office. I’d usually work an 8-9 hour day, with only one or two quick breaks where I’d run out for some coffee or a snack. I didn’t need naps, nor did I feel the weather temperatures as much. I’d come home, and while on the rare occasion I’d take a nap, it would only be for a thirty minute stretch. I always had so much to do after work, like make dinner, or see a movie with friends.

Then I thought back onto the day I’d just lived. Sure, it may have started at a similar time, but the activities and feelings were vastly different. I was no longer a “Working Professional”. I didn’t have a 9-5, and a lunch break, and frequent trips to the water cooler.

I was, and am, a full-time patient. 

My life is ruled by medication schedules now. I get tired from riding the bus, and walking a few city blocks. I fall asleep in waiting rooms, and get hot flashes in already hot summer weather. It’s been like this for two years!

And yet, somehow, I’m surprised by it every single day. My reality is that I’m a full time patient. And now my job is to learn to accept that.




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Life can be a handful

I broke a plate this morning.
It wasn’t on purpose.

Sometimes I really take for granted what I have in this world. And I’m not talking about materialistic things like a closet full of nice clothes, food in the fridge, and a roof over my head. Though those are very important things to have, don’t get me wrong.. I am extremely grateful for the roof, and the apartment it’s attached to. I am happy to have clothes to keep me warm/cool, even though the majority of them are secondhand (clothes are clothes). And I know I’m lucky that I get food stamps monthly that provide the food that fills my fridge and cupboards.

I am grateful for everything I have.

But what I’m talking about is taking things for granted that we don’t usually think of. In college, I took American Sign Language, and for one day our professor asked us to put ear plugs in so we might understand what it would be like to be deaf. I lasted about three hours before enough was enough, and I took them out, continuing on with my regular day. I couldn’t handle what I felt was a burden. The worst part, of course, being that I totally missed the life lesson my professor was trying to teach about how good we had it, when others aren’t always as lucky.

Yesterday, I really got what my professor was trying to convey a decade ago (you can stop counting, I have no issues admitting I’m 34!). That morning I woke up with a really painful flare in my right hand. Yeah, that’s right, in my entire body-head to toe-I only had pain in my hand. Not a big deal right? WRONG. Not only was the pain in my hand excruciating, but I’d also lost all motor function there. And I got to learn this the slow and hard way.

I woke up, and started my morning routine… Walked into the kitchen to turn my electric kettle on so I could get to caffeinating. I usually put my two cup French press out the night before, along with my coffee cup, milk frother, and Pyrex measuring cup (to heat milk in), to set myself up for the following morning just in case I wake up having a bad day. 

My sisters friend Faith, got me super addicted to drinking cafe au lait last Christmas, which is basically hot coffee with steamed frothy milk on top.  Of course I don’t have the super expensive Nespresso machine that she does, so I can’t make espresso style drinks at the drop of the hat. I can, however, do the next best thing by making my coffee in an individual French press, and then warming up the milk in the microwave and using a cheap milk frother I found at Bed, Bath, & Beyond for $22 to make the frothy milk that goes on top of the hot coffee. It may not be a fancy drink like you get in a cafe, but the fact that I can make a cafe au lait in my own home in about 10 minutes (as long as my hands are cooperating) is pretty miraculous. And delicious!

Well, I didn’t think I was having a bad day til I went to pick up my electric kettle, full of just-boiled water, and nearly dropped the thing. Pain shot up my right wrist and forearm. It wasnonlynthen that I realized my right thumb knuckle was discolored purple, and the flesh around the joint was shiny and stretched. My hand looked much larger than normal, every joint puffed up from the inflammation. Definitely not what I was expecting.

But I figured it was just a regular pain flare, I get them all the time, and I should be able to just deal with it. They truth of the matter was that I thought I could handle what I figured would be a frustrating, albeit painful, nuisance. Boy was I wrong. You may not realize it now, but you use your hands for EVERYTHING.

All day I was dropping things that ended up being too heavy for my pained hand to deal with (insert broken plate here). I had to switch hands to do the simplest of tasks: opening cabinets and the fridge door, using a pen/pencil to attempt to write anything (what a joke!), making the bed-can’t pull the sheet if I can’t even grip it! Everything was so difficult and painful. Not to mention how nearly impossible it was to shower with only one hand! Especially when it’s the wrong one! I had to use my teeth to bite my shower gel bottle to get the stuff onto my wash cloth. Shampooing my hair was painful at best. And then when it came to wrapping my hair in a towel? I might as well have made a video and sent it in to America’s Got Talent for all the embarrassing maneuvering that took place in my tiny bathroom.

I was suitably humbled.

A few years ago (well maybe more than a few), a movie named Constantine was in theatres. It was an instant hit for me since Keanu Reeves, my future husband, was in it, and the genre was sci-fi/fantasy, which I LOVE. I think it may even have been one of the first movies Shia LaBoeuf was in as an adult, pre-Transformers days for sure. I know, I know, get to the point Christine! Anyways at the end of the movie, Constantine slits his wrists in attempts to get the devil to appear so he can talk to him. And once the devil does in fact appear, (excellent entrance by Peter Stormare by the way!) he attempts to light a cigarette, but finds that he can’t. Loss of motor function, due to his cutting of the nerves and tendons in his wrist, made it impossible for him to use his lighter. I’m not sure why that particular scene seemed to be on a repetitive loop in my mind yesterday, but the fact of the matter is, that it was. And all day I was cursing(often out loud) on my inability to use my hand. Something so easy, so small, how could I not use it?? Agh the frustration!

Getting dressed? A nightmare! Do you know how difficult it is to put a bra on when you can’t even hold one end up for the other to clip onto? I’ll answer that one for you- VERY. And it wasn’t just the fact that I couldn’t hold or grip things. The pain was so harsh that I couldn’t bear the weight of anything. The smallest of objects, a book, or the tv remote, we’re just too heavy!

I very, very, slowly attempted to make breakfast. With two hands, poured the hot water into my French press to get the coffee brewing. It took two attempts for me to open the refrigerator door, after finding I couldn’t pull it open with my right hand (GRR!), so I could grab the milk for my cafe au lait. While my milk was microwaving, I went to the cupboard to grab a plate for my toast, and voila!! Smashed to pieces on the floor was one of my small plates. I had already forgotten that I couldn’t lift practically anything, and the plate proved to be too heavy. I grabbed it out of the cupboard and hadn’t taken two steps back towards my kitchen counter where my toaster was happily toasting my English muffin, and it literally just dropped from my fingers onto the floor, where it broke into millions (yes I’m exaggerating) of pieces.

Agh how frustrating!! All day I came across normal things that I couldn’t do. And when I say all day, I really do mean ALL DAY. The pain never let up, the flare never abated. It was continual and never ending it seemed.

In the late afternoon I went to meet my oldest sister at a local coffee shop near my house. Getting dressed for that little trip took ages. In fact, I ended up ditching my denim shorts with it’s annoying buttons and zipper for the easier skorts option where I could just pull them on and off. Though to be honest, it was still hard even then, as I still couldn’t grip anything with my right hand, so I sort of had to shimmy into them. Anyways… I met my oldest sister for coffee and once again struggled with a plate when I had to carry my latte in its saucer to a table. My day of struggles seemed never ending!

And after coffee with my oldest sister, I had dinner with my youngest and her fiancé. The hilarity of my unusable hand continued. I couldn’t use chopsticks with our takeout dinner, I couldn’t hold the glass of iced water I had requested to drink with my meal, and later when attempting to light a candle, I encountered the same problem as Constantine had faced when trying to use a lighter. IMPOSSIBLE!

By the time I got home at 9pm last night I was ready to call it a day-or hell even call it a month. I couldn’t believe how hard life was without the use of your right hand. And the thoughts that swam around in my head all day as I dealt with this at first nuisance, but eventually burden, came to light when I realized that some people deal with his permanently. Think about all those soldiers out there fighting for our country every day, putting their lives (including body parts) at risk. Coming home with missing limbs, hands, not to mention serious mental stress and anguish. And here I am bummed out that my hand hurts from an arthritis flare.

Suitably humbled.

Life can be a real handful, especially when working with only one hand! But I guess I just have to push through and make the best of what I’ve got. Sure, it can be painful, really, really painful! But I have to remember that it’s just one day. One day I struggle with. I think I can handle one day of stress and nuisamces, when others don’t get that option.

I didn’t sign up for Rheumatoid Disease. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t ask for the pain and the hardships and the struggle. But at the end of each day, when I think about what my life is like now, I remember that I’m grateful for what I still have.

Air in my lungs to keep me moving, two feet that take me places I need to go, two hands that feed me and help clothe me, and a voice to remind myself and others that it’s not the struggle that keeps us going til the end, it’s the memory of the journey and how we tell it that gets us there. I am grateful for all that I have, and I will continue to share that for as long as I can.



Thank you to all of my friends and family and readers and supporters for all that you have done and given me so far. I appreciate you. If you or anyone you know would like to help further, you may visit my web page at



Why I follow my doctor’s instructions

Anyone who has a debilitating disease or chronic illness, and is on a lot of medications, has had to sit through the “But what if?” conversation (or in some cases, lecture) at least once.

You know exactly which conversation I’m talking about. It usually comes from a concerned family member or friend, someone who’s done a lot of reading, especially on the internet. They back up their reasoning with a lot of memorized facts, new found statistics, and the sworn testimony of at least one doctor that you’ve never heard of, but is apparently a huge deal online or in Miami.

The content is always the same and always concludes with “Why don’t you try going off your medications for a few days and see what happens?”


“You’re just putting bad chemicals in your body. What if you just stopped taking the steroids and see how much better you would feel?”

And 50% of the time, these questions are followed with,

“It worked for this guy I read about,” or, “My good friend’s cousin went off his pain meds, and he cured himself.”

I’ve said this many times, I’m very close to being labeled as a broken record, but I’ll keep saying it as many times as it takes to get the message across: Every case is different.

What worked for someone in Kentucky, may not necessarily work for someone in Washington. There are so many factors you have to take into consideration! Do those people suffer from the same disease, and if so what is their severity level? Which medications are they on, and how long have they been on them? What kind of treatments have they tried? What are their allergies? How long have they been sick?

There is a legitimate reason why doctors tell their patients to stay on their medications. It’s not so they can make money for Big Pharma. Sure, I have heard that some doctors get certain kickbacks for promoting a certain type of drug or treatment or surgery type. But those are treatment/medications for very specific illnesses, and I can guarantee you no one is getting a bonus for prescribing Prednisone. Everyone who’s ever been in an accident or had an inflammatory issue, has been prescribed Prednisone. There isn’t some huge cover-up going on here, these doctors are just trying to help their patients. They don’t want us to get worse. But you know what would make us worse? Going cold turkey off our meds.

You know when you pick up your medications from the pharmacy, and they always make you confirm your prescriptions right then and there before placing them in the bag? That’s to make sure you’re taking home the correct medicines. And you get an essay worth of directions in pamphlet form along with it, so you know exactly  what you’re putting into your body. They list what the medications are for, possible related side effects, and instructions on when to call your doctor if you think you’re having an emergency. And I can guarantee that nowhere in those pages does it say “Yes it’s totally alright to stop taking these without consulting your doctor.”

In fact, each time I visit one of my prescribing doctors offices to get a refill, I always get a mini lecture about drug safety. They always want to confirm that I’m still taking my medications, and that I’m on the correct dose, and that I can always get my refill in a timely manner. They always express how important it is that I have an overlap when picking up a new rx, so there’s absolutely no chance I have to deal with withdrawal symptoms.

See, I don’t think these concerned friends and family really think about what it means to just “stop taking meds for awhile.” And sure, I get it. As someone who doesn’t rely on daily medications to be active or mobile or pain-free, there is no real way for them to understand what going cold turkey would feel like. They’re just reading an article and thinking, “Hmm, this seems like a healthier option.”

Well, sure! Of course being on zero medications is healthier! None of us actually want to put hard core chemicals into our bodies! But we do it to survive! We do it so we can live active lives and be mobile. We do it so we can handle living with the pain. There are so so so many reasons we take these medications, but I’d say the #1 reason is we take them TO STAY ALIVE.

I found an article online recently about going off of pain medications without using a prescribed timeline from your doctor. See, when changing medications, especially pain management drugs or corticosteroids, you need to allow your body a very slow ease off the medications so that you don’t go into shock. Especially if you’ve been on those types of medications for a long time. They build up in your body, so it’s necessary to ease off of them slowly. I, myself, have been slowly easing off of Prednisone for the last year. Now, if I were to go from say 10mg a day to nothing-cold turkey, well… I’d be in the emergency room within the first 12 hours experiencing the worst withdrawal comedown ever.

According to & without slowly tapering steroids alone, (pain management medications being an entirely other matter), negative symptoms can include:

  • Severe fatigue
  • Weakness
  • Body aches
  • Joint swelling/pain
  • Dizziness
  • Anxiety
  • Nausea/vomiting
  • Low blood pressure

And harsher symptoms can include but are not limited to:

  • Adrenal failure
  • Suicidal thoughts
  • Severe dehydration
  • Migraine
  • Paranoid Delusions

Um…Yikes! No, thank you.

You want me to go cold turkey off my meds? Well, I hope you’ll be there picking up the pieces of what that looks like. Will you’d be at my home first thing to help me out of my bed and into the bathroom? Will you be there to make all my meals, help me shower and dress, maybe even wipe my ass if my joint pain doesn’t allow me to even do that myself? Will you be with me day and night as I struggle with the excruciating pain? Will you sit with me while I cry because it hurts too much to even sleep?

Because that’s what we are talking about when you suggest that I just “Try not taking them for a week.”

We are talking about cold turkey, horrifyingly painful, medicine withdrawals. Withdrawals that I doubt you have scheduled yourself to be available for. And if reading articles about how to help people with debilitating illnesses is something you’re interested in, might I suggest the following websites:

These sites are a fountain of useful information on types of diseases and disabilities, descriptions of treatments and medications, and supportive ways you can help people who are suffering.

How do I know that I would experience the kind of withdrawals those websites suggest might happen, you may wonder? Well, because I’ve experienced it before. Twice, under the supervision of my doctors, we have tried to taper my prednisone to almost nothing. The result was a living nightmare. I ended up in the ER both times, immobile, in horrifying pain, screaming. A. Living. Nightmare.

So, no thanks on the suggestions that I should try quitting my meds “just to see what would happen”. Cause I already know the result.

Death. Death would happen.

But I appreciate your concern and support, all the same.

In my ongoing efforts to support myself whilst waiting for my Social Security benefits to kick in, I am still asking for and accepting donations for financial help. Please check out my web page at