It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me - Judy Radin

Been thinking about the old days, when lupus hurt so much I wanted to die. My skin is bruised blue, yellow, and purple from a treadmill accident. My immune system has been called to action. Those little t-cells are trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And it’s anybody’s guess how far the autoimmune reaction will go. Will it attack my platelets? Will it settle in my kidneys? Probably not. Hopefully not.

I had to take Vicodin all weekend. Just one a day. Nothing crazy. The pain in my arms and hands got to be too much. I couldn’t lift the kettle. I couldn’t drain the pasta. I couldn’t even open the wine. Aspirin didn’t help. Fancy anti-inflammatory COX-2 inhibitors didn’t help. Even Percocet didn’t help. Percocet just made me stoned. Vicodin, though. Vicodin did the trick.

Vicodin and I have had a long, successful relationship. Through six surgeries, each followed by challenging recoveries, I popped Vicodin day and night. I drove on it. I wrote on it. I shopped on it. I went to the theatre on it. I traveled to Europe on it. I never got addicted, though. And I’ve never once taken it for pleasure. I always wanted it out of body as soon as possible.

I’m in a bit of a time warp from this pain in my hands and knees. It is so familiar, so reminiscent of the seventies and eighties, when I lived on Grizzly Peak amongst Eucalyptus trees and morning glories. My friends were tired of my complaints. My family thought I was pretending to be sick just to annoy them. I hobbled around like an old lady, shuffling instead of walking, and thinking about symptoms instead of boyfriends.

I didn’t have Vicodin then. I had my journal and a view of the bay and between the two somehow I got by.