I had my hip injection this morning, and it was so much easier than I had expected.
It was done by a radiologist under fluoroscopy, so I hadn't met the doc before. According to my nurse, Dave, I had the best one because he never hesitated with the needle. It was true: all the prep beforehand, the consent form, the antiseptic wipedown, the injection of the local, took ages longer than the actual steroid injection. When it was time for that, the doctor just slid the needle in, pushed the steroid/anaesthetic mixture, and pulled it out again. (And he was friendly, too.) The actual injection took about 10 seconds.
I watched everything on the screen above my head, which was kind of cool, although I didn't learn much. I thought maybe I'd be able to tell how good or bad my hip looked, but since I don't really know what a "healthy" hip looks like, it wasn't much use.
For now, my hip feels a bit bruise-y, but it's pleasantly free of the sharp pain I've had lately. It's been getting steadily worse, so I hope this stuff does what it's supposed to do. It will be just in time for spring, and I can't wait to celebrate with bike-riding, hiking, and an upcoming weekend wandering in Toronto with friends.
EDIT: Just because you feel great while your joint is still frozen doesn't mean you should throw common sense to the wind and go for a giant hike. Especially when you were told explicitly to take it easy for a day or two. You will regret this when the anaesthetic wears off.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Visibility
My cortisone injection is booked for next Wednesday. I asked to put it off until all of my assignments and exams were finished, just in case I felt worse for a while afterward. Can you believe that, until last Friday, I was still making up December midterms that had been held over because of snowstorms? By the time my appointment rolls around, if I do feel rotten afterward, I at least won't have to worry about missing due-dates or tests.
The downside, of course, is that my hip isn't getting any better while I wait. And as it's become stiffer and more painful, it has also gotten a lot more difficult to hide the fact that something's wrong. I walk with a definite limp, stand with my feet at odd angles, and have trouble rising from my chair at the end of a long class.
I don't really have anything interesting to say about this, except that it's new territory for me. Painful, even slightly deformed wrists, fingers and elbows can be hidden quite easily, but as my limp becomes more pronounced, I'm starting to lose the freedom to disclose RA on my terms.
My policy, I've decided, is just to be honest if anyone asks. "I have rheumatoid arthritis, and my hip is not in great shape right now." I'm 27, in law school, surrounded by people who are, for the most part, friendly and intelligent. I shouldn't have to loiter after class, pretending to take a really long time gathering my things while, in reality, I'm waiting for my leg to straighten out so I can walk on it. So I'm just not going to.
The downside, of course, is that my hip isn't getting any better while I wait. And as it's become stiffer and more painful, it has also gotten a lot more difficult to hide the fact that something's wrong. I walk with a definite limp, stand with my feet at odd angles, and have trouble rising from my chair at the end of a long class.
I don't really have anything interesting to say about this, except that it's new territory for me. Painful, even slightly deformed wrists, fingers and elbows can be hidden quite easily, but as my limp becomes more pronounced, I'm starting to lose the freedom to disclose RA on my terms.
My policy, I've decided, is just to be honest if anyone asks. "I have rheumatoid arthritis, and my hip is not in great shape right now." I'm 27, in law school, surrounded by people who are, for the most part, friendly and intelligent. I shouldn't have to loiter after class, pretending to take a really long time gathering my things while, in reality, I'm waiting for my leg to straighten out so I can walk on it. So I'm just not going to.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Meditation and Pain
Recently I've been learning about meditation. Among other things, I've been reading a couple of books by Jon Kabat-Zinn. The first is called Full Catastrophe Living, and it's directed in part at people living with chronic pain and illness. The second is a more straightforward discussion of meditation, called Wherever You Go, There You Are.
Meditation is not what I'd always thought it was. It's not about forcing yourself to be calm, or your mind to be empty. It's just about really being present; not always dwelling on the past or worrying about the future.
Sadly, not me.
Because of this, I have always been pretty skeptical about the usefulness of meditation for people with chronic pain. Wouldn't being present in my body just make me more aware of how much it hurts? What I'm finding, though, is that while meditation may not do much for the pain itself, it does seem to be changing my response to pain.
I am a worrier. I worry about people I love, about school, polar bears and rainforests. And sometimes I think the worst part of chronic illness is not the symptoms themselves, but the anticipation of more, or worse, symptoms, and the disability and disappointment that may come with them.
Last week I took a trip with my parents. It was lovely and a lot of fun, but it also involved hours of driving. Car seats and scoliosis are not a good mix, and after a few hours, my back felt horrible. I usually just take a deep breath try to ignore it, but this time I cried. Actually, sobbed - quietly, because I didn't want to talk about it with anyone. I had a total meltdown. I thought I would ruin the trip for myself and my family. And we were going to a concert that night; how would I enjoy it when each breath took so much energy? I was so angry at myself.
I probably cried for a good half hour (it didn't help that I was exhausted) before some switch in my mind flipped and reminded me that here was the perfect opportunity to give this meditation business a try. So I started to think about why I was crying. It wasn't just because I hurt.Yes, I was in a lot of pain, but I was crying because I was worried about the next few hours and the next few days.
I brought my focus back to the present, noticing the car, the trees going by outside, and even my stiffness and seizing muscles. I reminded myself that I was already in enough pain to want to crawl out of my skin. I was already handling it. Surprisingly, this actually worked. My back didn't feel any better, but after a while, I did. I stopped crying, took pills, got out of the car and walked around.
I'm definitely no master of meditation. I'm still full of worries and neuroses most of the time, and I don't often remember to bring myself back to the here and now. I'm trying to, though, and when I do, I am surprised by the difference it makes - if not to the pain itself, at least to my confidence in my ability to handle it.
Before the concert that night, I soaked my back in a hot bath, did yoga in our hotel room, and loaded up on painkillers. And it worked! The concert was lovely.
Meditation is not what I'd always thought it was. It's not about forcing yourself to be calm, or your mind to be empty. It's just about really being present; not always dwelling on the past or worrying about the future.
Because of this, I have always been pretty skeptical about the usefulness of meditation for people with chronic pain. Wouldn't being present in my body just make me more aware of how much it hurts? What I'm finding, though, is that while meditation may not do much for the pain itself, it does seem to be changing my response to pain.
I am a worrier. I worry about people I love, about school, polar bears and rainforests. And sometimes I think the worst part of chronic illness is not the symptoms themselves, but the anticipation of more, or worse, symptoms, and the disability and disappointment that may come with them.
Last week I took a trip with my parents. It was lovely and a lot of fun, but it also involved hours of driving. Car seats and scoliosis are not a good mix, and after a few hours, my back felt horrible. I usually just take a deep breath try to ignore it, but this time I cried. Actually, sobbed - quietly, because I didn't want to talk about it with anyone. I had a total meltdown. I thought I would ruin the trip for myself and my family. And we were going to a concert that night; how would I enjoy it when each breath took so much energy? I was so angry at myself.
I probably cried for a good half hour (it didn't help that I was exhausted) before some switch in my mind flipped and reminded me that here was the perfect opportunity to give this meditation business a try. So I started to think about why I was crying. It wasn't just because I hurt.Yes, I was in a lot of pain, but I was crying because I was worried about the next few hours and the next few days.
I brought my focus back to the present, noticing the car, the trees going by outside, and even my stiffness and seizing muscles. I reminded myself that I was already in enough pain to want to crawl out of my skin. I was already handling it. Surprisingly, this actually worked. My back didn't feel any better, but after a while, I did. I stopped crying, took pills, got out of the car and walked around.
I'm definitely no master of meditation. I'm still full of worries and neuroses most of the time, and I don't often remember to bring myself back to the here and now. I'm trying to, though, and when I do, I am surprised by the difference it makes - if not to the pain itself, at least to my confidence in my ability to handle it.
Before the concert that night, I soaked my back in a hot bath, did yoga in our hotel room, and loaded up on painkillers. And it worked! The concert was lovely.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Sun and snow
It's been a long winter. We've been under piles of snow since the first storm back in the beginning of December. I love cold weather, but even I am more than ready to see leaves and flowers and green grass - or any ground at all, really - again.
Henry disagrees:
He loves it when his ball is hidden under snow and he has to dig for it. And, as you can see, the sun came out and the sky was blue. It's still cold, but spring is coming.
Henry disagrees:
He loves it when his ball is hidden under snow and he has to dig for it. And, as you can see, the sun came out and the sky was blue. It's still cold, but spring is coming.
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