Arthritis and I

Dear physician and friend Guy,

You asked that I write a few words about the arthritis that has been my constant companion for 30 years. I demurred, as you know, at the prospect of attempting to convey a satisfactory picture of the disease as I've experienced it. However, because I have received your assurance that any effort I make will be welcome, I shall dare to try.

Arthritis means ever-increasing pain and stiffness with ever-decreasing physical competence, bodily joy, and ease. I am not saying that the pain increases each and every day; it invariably plateaus and then continues on its upward, evil way. A large injection of steroids can bring marked relief for as much as 3 months, but how often may one ask for that impunity? Arthritis means, too, an inexorable diminishing of self-reliance and of the freedom to do and be as I like. Pain is the leitmotif of my life.

That brings me to the subject of activities that for years and years were mine to enjoy. Bicycling—oh, the sheer delight of moving noiselessly along some quiet, green road. OUT. Dancing: the quintessential body language. How I've loved it since the age of 4! Gloriously expressive of self when I chose it to be, and at its best—dare I say it?—a kind of aesthetic orgasm. OUT.

Now I cannot sleep on my stomach, sit for more than an hour, open milk cartons, carry bags of food weighing more than 4 pounds, or open doors in most buildings (unfaceted doorknobs are my downfall). I can no longer, alas, wear rings to divert the eye from my crooked fingers. I can't don a coat or kimono without the help of gravity as I bend down toward the floor, I can't turn down my blouse collar over a jacket, …