“Under Daulerio’s tenure, items have included posting a private e-mail from NBC Nightly News anchor Brian Williams to publisher Nick Denton; videos of babies farting; and whether or not certain entertainers are gay because they “look gay.”—Gawker - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
I’ve been doing a lot of random, probably fake non-calculus in my head the last few weeks. I’m not really even sure what calculus is, so this is basically me saying I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about fairly unpleasant topics, mostly with respect to my body and the future.
I think the first thing that happens when you get diagnosed with something you have to live with for the rest of your life is that you just kind of want to sleep a lot. You’re given a lot of information, asked if you have any questions — which in itself is a ridiculous question because you haven’t even figured out what the relevant ones might be, on a scale of “If I’m immune suppressed is it retarded to take Cold-Eeze?” to “I hear that people with Psoriatic Arthritis have a much higher risk of heart disease, so am I going to die of a heart attack before I need a hip replacement?” — and speak very loudly to your family in the hopes that volume might be mistaken for optimism.
The next thing that happens is that in the midst of telling someone that you’ve been just overwhelmed by information and are really trying not to overthink it, you promptly burst into tears and wail, “I can’t even figure out whether I should still even be thinking about having kids some day! I don’t even know if it’s right to get married. I don’t want to have to be taken care of by anyone and I don’t want someone to come to resent me.”
And these are all completely ridiculous things to worry about, you realize, because who knows what the landscape will be with you, with the disease, or with the world in 5, 25, or 40 years. These are not decisions that should be markedly changed by new information — and part of you is glad you have no one to accompany you to doctor and hospital appointments because the whole situation is so dumb and you’re probably dumb too.
You ever notice how the phrase “I’m going to be honest with you” is never followed by something pleasant like, “We’re bumping you up to first class,” or “It’s all blowjobs from here on out”? Honesty sucks, apparently.
Last week the official word came down and now, after x-rays and blood tests and other dumb things that involve hours in hospitals, I am officially a 28-year-old with psoriatic arthritis.
And that mostly sucks. I’d hoped they’d look at my hands and tell me I was full of shit or that I had carpal tunnel. But (and here’s my favorite part) my hands were the least of my problems. Apparently the sacroiliac joint — where the hip meets the spine — has been in bad shape for a while, and the achilles areas on both sides show inflammation.
Presented with my two options of Humira vs. methotrexate , I found that in 2012, your best options are immunosuppression or immunosuppression with the added benefits of nausea and possible hair loss! Apparently when your spine is disintegrating (or something) your only real option is the former — so thank god for silver linings.