I want to say that the new anti-inflammatory (Lodine, 500mg twice a day) my doctor prescribed is working, but it’s too soon to tell and I don’t want to jinx it.

The absence of posts is rheumatoid-arthritis related.

I like to do my writing in the morning, but my symptoms have been so bad that mornings are off the table. It takes a full 3 hours now before I can use my right upper body -- neck, shoulder, wrist and hand. Once those parts are sufficiently warmed up, I have to do as much of my proper, paying work as possible. If I keep moving, things seem to stay lubricated, but I get tired easily.

I took a nap the other day but it was ill-advised. I woke up in more pain, and it took another 2 hours to get back to being able to move without clunking about like a rusty tin man.

It is so annoying to be so limited and slow in my movements! I hate being in the kind of physical pain that yoga cannot alleviate -- I can do a few restorative supine poses but they only temporarily subdue the aches I feel in the marrow of my bones. I am trying to remain optimistic because I know this is a phase and I won’t always be in this much agony, but I am impatient. The slightest twitch of my right wrist causes me to wince and moan, and I feel like everything I say or feel or do right now is cloaked by a fog of discomfort.

And I hate feeling sorry for myself! And I hate asking for help from anyone who isn’t TA. The other night I had dinner with friends at a restaurant, and I barely touched my food -- not because I wasn’t hungry, but because I couldn’t hold the fork. How fucking pathetic is that?

I am trying very hard to practice loving kindness toward my younger sister’s husband, but his frequent pettiness makes it very, very hard.

He and my sister have become health reporters -- they cannot talk to you about how they’re feeling or what’s happening without mentioning fact after fact after medical fact. I get that this is their coping mechanism, the way they deal with the spectre of my sister’s death. When they focus on the minutiae of her health care and treatment, it makes them feel like they have some measure of understanding or control over her situation.

But the truth is, they don’t. They have no control whatsoever. Her cancer is terminal and the chemo is doing more harm to her immune system than good to the tumors that continue their inexorable invasion of her brain.

Every time I talk to her on the phone, she asks me to speak more slowly. I can’t tell if it’s because her brain is computing worse than the time before, or if in my haste to get as much communication in as possible, I’m speaking too quickly. It doesn’t matter. I ask about how she’s feeling, and she recounts her bowel movements, her bloodwork schedule, and tells me about her chemo medication. I try to keep it light, but most of the time let her guide the conversation. She always asks about how cold it is in New York, and whenever I tell her, she exclaims something like, “Wow! That’s two degrees above freezing!” Today I forget to tell her that it snowed a little bit. That would have excited her.

There’s no easy way here, is there?