Road to the diagnosis: History of Rhuquel rheumatoid arthritis

It all started quite quietly. A storm tracked me down and struck at the same time. In November 2001, my city had a hurricane. During this hurricane, I felt my body start to move. I noticed ailments and pain in my hands, my knees, my hips and my feet before, but nothing too alarming. As the hurricane developed around me, I did not know that a storm prepared in me.

In January 2002, I knew that something was wrong with my body. My hands were stiff and it was difficult to extend my fingers. Simple things like opening a pot and holding a pen or a cup were difficult and sometimes impossible.

My feet were constantly suffering. My toes would lock. They felt like they were crushed in a handful of vice and extended beyond the skin. Walking was a difficult task that I carefully done.

To my work as a social worker as a foster family, I barely worked due to extreme fatigue and pure exhaustion. At the beginning, I thought that I was injured and that I took place on work.

As a former athlete, I have often experienced ills and pain, so I raised the changes as long as possible. After a while, I realized that it was a different type of pain. It was constantly getting worse and prevented me from living a normal life.

In September 2002, everything worsened. My hands would not cooperate, the pain moved from my fingers to my wrists and up to my arms. I could not completely exceed my arms. I felt like I was ramps on pins and needles. They were hot to the touch and tender. My feet were not better. I was forcing myself to walk without girling and crying.

It took me to do basic things. I had trouble living simply. Things I often wanted for acquired, like walking without help, opening a door or writing my name, has become tasks that I did not want to do and could not do without pain. At 33, I felt like an elderly woman in a fragile body.

My husband convinced me to go to the doctor. Reluctantly, I made an appointment with my primary care doctor at the end of September 2002.

The doctor listened to when I explained my situation. She checked my tender fingers and toes by pressing and moving them. She checked my amplitude of motion by gently helping me to slowly move my arms and legs.

After the exam and a few questions about my lifestyle, she decided that we would start the diagnostic process with a hand specialist. She made this decision because of what she felt in my hands and the limited amplitude of movements in my wrists and my arms. She thought it could be a carpal tunnel, a condition where a compressed nerve causes tingling in hand, wrist and forearm.

I was still in a large amount of pain, but I was hope that I could get the answers about what was going on. This feeling of hope began to fade when I visited the hand specialist.

In October 2002, I met a hand specialist. He listened carefully and asked questions, like the duration I had the problem, if it was constant pain, and if there were arthritis history in my family (there was).

The doctor then took X -rays to assess any potential problem with my bones or my joints. He said the images showed nothing. His exam was to look at me. He did not touch any of the affected areas, which I thought quite strange.

The doctor told me that it was not a carpal tunnel, but it could be my weight with my body. I gave a strange look and asked: “What has it to do with pain in my hands and my feet because I am not overweight?” He quickly started going back, mumbling that weight is usually the cause of this type of pain. He threw me for a loop. I felt like I was growing.

After all this, he said that I was a “fascinoma”. I had never heard the word before, but it turns out that it is the medical slang for an interesting or unusual case. He was perplexed and uncertain of what was going on with me.

Without obvious signs of a condition that he could deal with, he referred me to a rheumatologist, a doctor specializing in conditions affecting joints, muscles and bones.

When choosing a rheumatologist, the hand specialist laughed and asked, “Do you want a young doctor or an old doctor?” I explained to him that it was not a question of laughing. I want a doctor who will listen to me and work with me rather than laughing at me.

This hand specialist made me uncomfortable. He was quite degrading and nonchalant. I was so happy to move on.

I made my rheumatologist appointment for the following month. In the meantime, I worked in extreme pain. When I asked for help for pain, all the doctors told me that they didn’t want to prescribe anything without knowing what was going on. I had to count on over -the -counter pain relievers (OTC).

In November 2002, my rheumatologist appointment arrived. I filled all the documents and I talked to the doctor about my symptoms and my family history.

The rheumatologist carried out a complete examination of the body, X -rays and a lot of blood. I told my husband how meticulous the rheumatologist was. It was well after having laughed and repelled by the hand specialist.

Sitting in this sterile examination room, I tried not to have my hopes too high for an answer. Due to the significant inflammation that I had, the doctor increased the blood, which was done internally, and provided the results on the same day.

On the basis of my family history, his physical examination and the results of blood tests, he diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis (RA). I finally had a name for what was happening in my body. It was a relief, and also, a great fear.

Because my symptoms were so aggressive and aggravated quickly, my rheumatologist decided to treat my Professor aggressively. I started in high doses of steroids to lower swelling and reduce pain. At the same time, I was prescribed a chemotherapy medication commonly used to treat PR.

About a year after noticing initial symptoms, I had a name and treatment in place. From the moment a name was given, I was changed. Ra forced me to be a defender of myself and to trust what I feel in my body. It taught me patience not only with doctors, but also with myself.

This winding path of the diagnosis, although uncertain and unpredictable, taught me to continue to speak and make answers. I deserve to be heard and understood. During this trip to the diagnosis, I had to realize that my pain was “sufficient” to speak, so that I could get the support and help I needed.