First it was the handicapped placard for the car. Long before I had my knee replacement the joint had deteriorated to bone on bone. I went more than a year that way, limping and in a lot of pain. Even going from the parking lot into the doctor's office was tough. Once in a while I would make some comment about how parking in the handicap spot might help some.
But I had no intention of ever doing that. I drew a line in the sand. In no way would I ever get a handicapped placard. I am not handicapped. I will not ever consider myself bad enough to park in one of those spots.
Except the pain kept getting worse and worse. And the walk from the car to the doctor's office, or the grocery store, or work, became more and more painful.
So with the encouragement of my family, I got up the nerve to talk to the doctor about it. The line in the sand was moved when the doctor said, based on my knee, that I absolutely needed one.
When it arrived in the mail, I again drew a line in the sand when I refused to use it.
More pain, more difficulty in walking, and the insistence from my daughter that I use it. So I started to park in the handicapped spot - only sometimes - thus moving the line again.
Then I drew a line in the sand about using a cane. Nope, never will I use a cane at work. If I'm that bad off, I'll quit working. Except I had things to do at work. And as the bones began to wear down more and more my leg started to become deformed.
I had to use a cane to get me around. Moved the line.
Then came the shots for arthritis. Would I ever give myself my own shots? Nope, never. I'm drawing the line there, doctor.
Two months ago my pain, swelling, and stiffness was keeping me from being functional and I was desperate. There goes another line moved.
Thank goodness it's a prefilled syringe that I push down and click, so there's no looking at the needle. There's no way I could ever give myself a shot where I had to measure it myself and watch the needle go in. That is definitely my very last line in the sand. I will not budge.
But that line has been crossed. I give myself weekly injections of Methotrexate. I have to measure it, I have to watch the needle go in.
I can't believe it's come to this. I can't believe this is my life.
I can't believe I have to, in addition to all of the other medications I take, do this. Do this to be able to get out of bed. To be able to type. To be able to tie my shoes, ride an exercise bike, open a jar. To just get through the day.
