A Dark Promise

Most Thursdays I try to participate in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. She's always got great prompts and inspiration for writers. The prompt I chose for today is "A Promise." I decided to write about my rheumatoid arthritis. I hope it informs people a little better about what this disease is and what it's like to live with it. I think it can be read from the perspective of almost any autoimmune disease that causes pain. 

My Promise To You

I promise to greet you as you wake, and tuck you into bed each night.

I promise to always be new to you. You'll never get used to me, and yet, you'll always be tired of me.

I promise scores of medical bills. I promise referrals and labs and surgeries...I might not be your fault, but you'll be charged as if I am.

I promise well-meaning advice—“omega three fatty acids,” “holistic healing,” “yoga” and “gluten free.” Sometimes you’ll hang on with hope to the revelation unfolding before you; sometimes you’ll defend yourself with confidence that's lacking; sometimes you’ll be quiet--and wait for the subject to change. The statement "You don't understand," banging against clenched teeth. 

I promise medication. They promise its efficacy. I promise side effects. They promise they'll be worth it. I promise questioning your decision to take it. A panicked hesitation before each injection--a searing pain as it courses through your stomach or thigh. 

I promise a tug-of-war battle with depression. Whether its from the meds or the pain or the reality that is now your life, I promise that it will nag and pick at your frail happiness. Some days it might win. You may spend a birthday in bed--nursing your sorrow and swollen joints. A bathtub filled with epsom salt and tears. 

I promise you pain. Pain and pAiN and pain. Your lifelong companion, to have and to hold. Like a trained army that works as one, your body will gather its forces and attack. Pain like a sea with ebbs and flows. Pain that swells and bursts—crashing on bones and spitting salty tears on your face.

I promise misunderstanding. "But you don't look sick," "My grandma has arthritis," and "At least it's not cancer" washing you with bitterness and guilt.

I promise forever--a lifetime. Sometimes remission, sometimes reprieve--but I'll be lurking and waiting in the shadows of your sunny days.

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