If you weren’t aware, I have rheumatoid arthritis. I was diagnosed 3 years ago when I was 35 years old. People assume rheumatoid arthritis is an old person’s disease. Let me tell you, it’s not. On a weekly basis, I take 6 little yellow pills – methotrexate. This drug has kept the disease at bay, so on that front, I have no complaints.
Tonight though, I feel rough.
It’s methotrexate night. That means my phone pings at 7 pm and it’s time to knock back the 6 little yellow tablets.
But I’ve had a rough day.
I had an argument with Lydia on the school run. I snapped at a colleague within minutes of arriving at the office. The systems were playing up at work. I had an almost 4-hour meeting this afternoon that knocked me for six. Before leaving work I had to deal with a serious issue. On, and I haven’t drunk enough today.
I like to leave work at work. I don’t bring issues home with me. Not today. I was in a funk, and I couldn’t shake it. That two-minute walk home is not enough to shake a funk off. I hate that, it’s not fair on Helen and the girls.
The day after taking methotrexate, Wednesday to most people, is actually known in our house as methotrexate-day. That’s because it alters my mood. It alters my appetite. It poisons me. I hate that too.
I know I should be thankful. We have a wonderful NHS and these pills keep me healthy so I could do things like running. But that’s doesn’t stop me hating the fact I have to take them at all.
Usually, on methotrexate-day all I want is chocolate. Frankly, I could go for a blooming great bar of anything tonight. In fact, I could just smash and entire, full-size Toblerone!
I’m going to go and have a strong coffee now and try and relax a bit.
Rant over.
Thanks for reading.
Dave
