I felt a familiar feeling during Bible study Tuesday night. And no, it wasn’t a religious epiphany — it was more corporeal in nature — but, boy, did it surprise me.
I almost caught myself feeling nostalgic, as I haven’t felt that sensation in a long, long while. But don’t get me wrong: it wasn’t a good memory at all. It was quite the opposite — a sense of foreboding and of the excruciating pain that loomed if I didn’t act quickly.
I knew I had to go to the pharmacy to purchase Arcoxia 120 milligrams, Voltaren Emugel, and, of course, colchicine if I wanted to prevent an acute flare-up. And I did. As soon as I got home, I applied the gel to the affected area — my left podagra, or for those unfamiliar with the word, the first metatarsophalangeal joint, aka the big toe — swallowed both the Arcoxia and colchicine and then prayed for the best.
The pain was still bearable (I could touch the affected area without wincing), but the joint had already become puffy, stiff and bright red. Or maybe I was just imagining that part, but the tightness of the skin and that “fiery” feeling were all too real.
I flopped onto the couch in front of the TV to partake in my nightly ritual when I remembered I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to avoid discomfort, which would be the understatement of the week. So right then and there, I decided to forego it. Well, not exactly. I took a couple — or maybe more than a couple — of sips before I put the bottle away. After all, I had already armed myself with one of the strongest painkillers out there.
I know I have yet to name the affliction, but I felt there was no need to write it down. Those familiar with the disease would have known straight away what it was, given the medicines I purchased to stave off a potentially crippling attack.
Then I went to bed, optimistic that the inflammation would be gone when I woke up and the pain would be a distant memory. But who was I kidding?
I managed three hours of sleep. Tops. I felt the dull ache before I even opened my eyes. That was when I knew my plans for the day would have to be shelved. That meant scratching off my 3 p.m. pickleball appointment. I was also having second thoughts about joining my cousin, who had invited me to a birthday party later that night. The celebrant, though, was a VIP in the former administration, and it would have been a shame to miss it. So I limped to the venue and pretended my left foot wasn’t on fire.
But that morning, before any of that unfolded, I did what everybody else does when they find themselves in a similar situation: I took a photo of the affected area, posted it on my FB account with a cryptic message and then waited for the reactions. And there were quite a few — fortunately. Because, let’s face it, the worst part of living in the middle of the social media age is being ignored. And, trust me, I’m not used to being snubbed.
So there I was. An empty shell of a person. Just mindin’ my own business… Oh wait! Wrong song. Actually, I was thinking of a Billie Holiday tune. Good morning, toe ache. Here we go again.