I’ve revelled in near perfect health for as long as I can remember. I’ve run marathons, swum miles, climbed high mountains and ridden a bike through two countries, consecutively. That, between (sometimes) fleeting attempts at yoga, aerobics, tabata, tennis, ag you know, all the stuff that keeps you sweaty, smelly, convivial and socially trendy. There was never a moment I even vaguely entertained the fact that I would not be fit and ready to rock and roll all the days of my life. (Fit meaning my body being able to anything and everything I need it to do, when I need it to do it.)
I’m no novice at nutrition either – I grew up with a salad and veggie obsessed mother and I certainly know one end of a pomegranate from the other. (Not to say that I didn’t feed my soul and give chocolate, apple pie and ice cream a good tonk too). Blessed with a very high pain threshold, I rarely take pills of any sort, other than a teeny sleeping pill on those long l-o-n-g distance flights across the Atlantic. I’m happily married to one husband, the same great guy I married 31 years ago and have two beautiful children to brag about. Which, sorry friends, I do incessantly.
My life with God is good and full and interesting and involved as I try to inspire and do unto others, as I want to be done unto me.
So… as I half listened to the dr’s announcement of my malaise my mind said nah-that’s-not-for-me while my body screamed, I know it, I feel it. I dismissed his waffling on about some women with auto immunes dying before the age of 65 blahdy blah blah …. mortality doesn’t worry me at all. It’s a non-negotiable requirement for this thing we get to do – called life.
Not being able to live whilst being alive, hurt. Hurt really hard.
You can read the rest of my diagnoses story here.
Wonderful stuff. But not everyone, (oh how I wish) can live in private paradise 24/7, year in and year out. Over the next 30 days I’ll share my journey of remission, progression, depression, nutrition, incision, alkalisation and eventual (I’m almost there) abolition of the autoimmune called rheumatoid arthritis.
Please note: I am not any sort of medical practitioner. Never have and never will be. I’m not going to tell you what to do or how to do it. This is the story of my own personal journey with both trials and triumphs and always undergirded by THE bloat. This is not a one size fits all disease. You – yes, YOU, yourself and I – have to ask questions, explore the options and even make up your own options. Do this, do that until one day you wake up after that illusive good sleep, and can move without creaking, bend your fingers without freaking, hit the gym without bleating, pee without leaking and
(Ok, ok, not the champagne ‘cos that can inflame)
you get to walk, minus the limp, into your own miracle.
Welcome friend and I pray as you walk these 31 days with me, you’ll find your miracle too. It exists and you can go from fat and flared to fit and – I hope you find the journey – funny. For surely, as e e cummings once said
“the most wasted of all days is the one without laughter”