Thirty Three #2
I nod, casting Peyton a look that says this conversation isn’t over, then glance around the union building, searching for an empty space. In the far, right corner of the outrageously large room, I see just the spot.
With each step, I feel these painful balls in my knees, smacking against one another like a torturous Newton’s Cradle. Once I’m semi-isolated from the chaos, I click on the notification, and log in to my patient portal.
You have new test results, it says.
Lucky me.
After staring at the sentence for what feels like forever, I suck in a breath, and scroll down.
Once I read these results, everything becomes real.
Of course, I know, it already is. The pain is real. The unpredictability is real. The unraveling of every plan I ever had for my life is real.
But this places the gravestone.
It confirms that the meds aren’t working. It confirms I’m getting worse. It’s going to dictate what happens to me next.
I’m no stranger to pain. Not just from RA, but from a lifetime on the ice. I’m used to ripping off Band-Aids that have fused to the skin.
And that’s what I need to do now.
I shift my gaze back to the luminescent screen, and read the results.
Ultrasound Examination
View: Adequate
Findings: Presence of boutonnière deformity in the right fifth digit. Synovitis and joint effusion noted in both patellas. Left wrist shows moderate tendinopathy. Structural damage identified in the right medial patellofemoral ligament.
The upside of being a bio major is that I can actually understand all of this.
The downside? I understand all of it, and it’s bad.
My finger’s shot, which isn’t news. There’s fluid pooling in both knees. The tendon in my left wrist is either inflamed or starting to break down, and the ligament that’s supposed to keep my kneecap in place is falling apart.
My throat tightens, an itching sensation spreading down my esophagus like I’ve put a whole kiwi in my mouth and swallowed.
In my chest, a sinkhole forms. I know it could be worse.
The report could’ve said my knees were breaking down completely.
It could’ve told me my elbows were past saving, or that my shoulders were beginning to disintegrate.
But just because it’s not the worst-case scenario doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.
I look back at the screen, scrolling down to the blood tests. Before I even begin reading them, my vision blurs, and I feel a sharp pain in my lungs. Taking in a breath that’s not nearly soothing enough, I blink away the tears and press on.
Blood Test Results:
CRP: 38.2 mg/L Normal Range: <10 mg/L
CRP is C-Reactive Proteins. Elevated proteins indicate inflammation, which is exactly what you would expect with Rheumatoid Arthritis. What I didn’t expect is for the levels to be over ten milligrams higher than my last test.
CRP: Worse.
Next is the Rheumatoid Factor. Those are antibodies that are self-destructive.
They get confused and attack your own healthy tissue instead of doing their damn job.
If you have RA, you likely have a high Rheumatoid Factor, hence the name Rheumatoid Arthritis.
My last result was at 87.6 IU/mL. Now, it’s at …
RF: 122.9 IU/mL
The normal is below 20. Awesome.
Rheumatoid Factor: Worse.
I check the ESR next (The Erythrocyte Sedimentation Rate), then the Complete Blood Count., all of which are elevated.
As I read result after result, that coarse, itchy lump in my throat swells.
Worse.
Worse.
Worse.
My eyes move to a boldened word from beneath the list of labs.
Surgery.
What a terrifying word. At least to me. The thought of going under anesthesia, of being poked, prodded, and cut open is terrifying. Spending months recovering in a way that is visible to the world around me terrifies me even more.
I have spent so long trying to be normal. Trying not to let people see how broken I am. And while I know the only way for it to get better is to treat it, I’m still not prepared for everyone to know.
A disability isn’t something people should be ashamed of. I believe that, truly, I do. But just like Peyton struggles to believe she deserves to be Captain, I can’t seem to believe I’m not broken.
“Everything alright?”
My eyes snap up, landing on Peyton. The moment I blink, the tears that I had fought to hold back start to fall. I quickly swipe them away, sniffing.
.”I’m—” A sigh slips out of me, my gait uneven. The limp’s getting harder to hide. Peyton’s brow pinches as she watches me.
“Do you need to sit down?” she asks, tone shifting toward worry. Before I can respond, she disappears toward one of the booths and comes back hauling a folding chair over her shoulder like a firefighter. She sets it down in front of me and unfolds it.
“Sit.”
And because everything hurts, I do. The second I lower myself, the burn in my knees flares like it’s punishing me for giving up. But slowly, it eases.
“Do you need water?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I snap, then soften. “Thank you.”
She nods and drops down beside me on the cold, hard floor.
“Aren’t you gonna miss your physics thing?” I ask, still sniffling.
She shrugs. “Nah. I’ve got time.” Her chin rests in her palm, and her eyes meet mine, round and curious. “So … you finally gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Peyton’s pushy, but in this strangely respectful way.
Like she’s always listening, even when she’s needling me.
She asks but never demands. At Pineview, when I needed space, she gave it to me but sat closely.
Waiting. Not prying, just present. When I told her about the RA, it was the same.
No fixing. No claims of alternative medicine that have been proven by nobody but a church in Arkansas. She just listened.
It’s terrifying.