July had been altogether too exciting. Two hospital admissions, IVIGs, a lung abscess, followed by a month of antibiotics. Now I was hoping for a few boring months where the only excitement was a gradual return of strength, which would hopefully be joined by a bit more energy.
As he leant back in his chair, my rheumatologist took a long look at me and said: “This is a nasty disease.” Just in case I hadn’t taken it in he repeats it: “Really nasty.”
Hearing the kookaburras start to laugh as the sun starts to peak above the horizon signals that the night at long last is drawing to a close. Though lying awake since 4 am, my Fitbit erroneously thinks I am asleep because I move so little.
As I flopped into the recliner chair, my Fitbit ironically informed me that I had just done fifteen minutes of exercise. Little did it know that all I had done was get dressed and brush my teeth!
I was standing at the reception desk of my doctor’s surgery when someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. Turning around, I couldn’t have been more shocked.
There was nothing neutral about what was happening to my body. My own immune system had advanced a full-frontal attack on its own muscles.
Beauty for Ashes 