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Well, well. If it isn't Mr. Otto M. Yoon himself, aka Polymyalgia Rheumatica, my rheumy roommate.
Hey, Roomy. How are you? Good, I imagine. Feeling safer now? I'm on the job, ever on the prowl, my man, working 24/7 to protect you. Don't mention it. You're welcome, buddy.
Finally I figure out what you've been doing to me. Finally I confront you.
No worries, mate. We're in this thing together. Su casa es mi casa, eh,compadre?
What the hell are you talking about? I had no idea there was a stalker hiding inside of me. You and I live in harmony for 70 years, me active and involved with the world, you keeping most pathogens at bay. In my golden years I'm competing in tennis, softball, basketball, golf, and bowling, creating material for my website, presiding over my tennis club, keeping up with the world by reading books and magazines, surfing the net, watching TV, then suddenly, like Sheriff Joe Arpaio on an unannounced sweep for undocumented immigrants, you go after me, attacking my immune system, producing antibodies to use against my own tissues, inflaming my hip and shoulder joints, rendering me immobile, suppressed physically and depressed mentally. Roomy, you're an android gone berserk, wigged out, run amok.
"I'm sorry, Dave." What, no response? Hey, if not an LOL, how about a smile at least? I mean, I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey, too. I was there with you. See here, old chap, I simply fired an early-warning signal, a shot across your bow. I wanted to help you in time of need; you know, "M'aidez." So chin up, stiff upper lip and all that.
No, you wanted to hurt me; you know, "May-day." Overnight, our symbiotic relationship became a dysfunctional relationship.
Monsieur, a cet temps-la, il faut que je t'attaque.
Don't you 't me; vous ne me donnerez pas le vous-do.
Eh, bien, calmez-vous, calmez-vous. Anyway, Roomski, I had to do it. It's a dangerous world out there. I couldn't have consulted with you, couldn't have laid out possible scenarios for you. Some things you're better off not knowing. That's why you have me as your personal CIA. You're too naive. You wouldn't have understood or approved. I had to go rogue and make a pre-emptive strike. You think you're safe on your own? Au contraire, mein herr. At your age, who knows what diseases might be trying to assault you? Didn't you get pneumonia last April? Last year didn't you have the flu for a month? The terroist pathogens are out there. Al Qaida would like to stash an improvised explosive cancer device in one of your aging organs. The Taliban would like to fly a clot into your brain. Think of this as part of the evolutionary process. This is how our species survives. We must be ready, must anticipate, must strike first. Like that major said in Vietnam, "In order to save the village, it was necessary to destroy it." We needed to attack ourself in order to prevent any other disease from attacking us. If your joints are inflamed, that will distract or deter viruses and bacteria and cancers from going after you. You've already been taken, so to speak, see what I mean? So I blitzed my targets--hips, shoulder, hands. A little friendly fire. No apologies, Roommeister.
You sneaky saboteur. You stealth-bombed me. You came at me in the guise of muscle-pain after I had played a long softball tournament and done a hard weight workout. You made my hip and shoulder joints start smoldering and led me to think that I had just strained a muscle and ligament or two and would recover fine. You Judas, you Brutus, you Benedict Arnold. So I just played through the pain for a couple of weeks, while it got worse and worse. "You really got a hold on me," you beetle-browed parasite. Tennis, golf, yardwork, housecleaning--any activity exacerbated the problems. Finally I struggled to comb my hair, reach a dish in the cupboard. Sitting down or standing up required full concentration on the use of both shoulders and both hips. Me legs begged me not to bend them. My arms whined, "No pressure, please." You made my shoulders ache so much that I couldn't sleep lying flat on my back in bed--had to sleep in the living room sitting up in a chair to relieve the pressure. You knew I wouldn't go to the doctor right away, knew I'd feel guilty and blame myself for the problem. You rendered me unable to play any of my sports. I couldn't run--
Yeah, I've seen you "run"--even when you were at your best, you used that term far too liberally.
Couldn't shoot a jump shot.
What's your max range at age 70, anyway--17 feet? Your teammates can't even count on you for a three-pointer.
Couldn't throw a softball.
Ah, you mostly lobbed to the cutoff man anyway.
Couldn't serve a tennis ball
Somewhere Andy Roddick is snickering at the thought of your "serve."
Couldn't even take swings at the driving range because you torched my hip flexors.
Not much loss there. You never used the hips properly anyway. Your swing is all arms and oversway. You might as well be waltzing.
Finally became too rigid--had the rigor without the mortis--to go on. Left Seattle and headed home to seek answers. Drove 10 hours each day. Behind wheel, an effort of will to lift right leg to apply brake or push on gas pedal. Stiffer and stiffer as hours went by. At gas stops, need both arms to force door open. Lift leg with both hands and hang it out doorway. Lift right leg. Ditto. Push off with arms and land on asphalt clumsily. Command feet to move. No response.
Well, pardon me for caring. That was my doing, but I just wanted to keep you from walking into trouble.
Command again. Grudgingly feet take six-inch steps. Hunched over, shoulders stooped, a cliche of an old man, laboriously trudge through parking lot, to bathroom, to food/coffee counter. Then limp back to car. Pull door open, sit side-saddle, lift right leg in with both hands, then left. Press on.
Once home, to doctor. Manipulation of joints, demanding resistance to pressure. Joints and ligaments rebelling. Beaten up. Then MRI and a dozen X-rays. Arms forced to extend, legs to bend or flatten out. Blood tests. Exhausted. No medication or diagnosis yet. Wait for results. Limp around. Sleep sitting up. Require help putting on shirt.
But all the while, you were safe, partner.
Safe from what?
Safe from whatever wasn't attacking your immune system. I immobilized you to keep you out of harm's way. If it hurts too much to sit down or stand up, you're going to stay put.
Thanks for thinking of me. You gave me constipation, too.
How so?
The process became too much of an ordeal. Drop trou. With no small muscle control, owing to pain, free fall toward toilet through spasming hip flexors. Make awkward three-point landing, catching self with both hands as butt hits toilet seat. Hope against hope to stick the landing and not fall off seat, lest I be unable to get up and have to call for help. Then, business done, gird self for return trip to standing position. Make four-point take-off. Rock a little and push off toilet seat with both hands while legs push off feet. Stagger for balance. Struggle to get pants pulled up, arms inflexible. Not worth it. Best to avoid it--not void it--as long as possible. But now I'm here to say that I've put that behind me, Roomy. I'm going to subdue you with gentle exercises to gradually increase flexibility and build muscle tone, and with easy walks in the swimming pool, forward, backward, sideways, adding reps incrementally. Above all, though, I'm going to knock you out with 50 MG salvos of Prednisone, a shock-and-awe counter-attack on my stalker to put out the fires and then gradually diminish the strength of the doses until just a light spray daily prevents ignition, like sprinklers soaking the logs at a saw mill, and I can start playing ball again.
Prednisone? No, that's a horrible idea. It has terrible side-effects: insomnia, osteoporosis, blurred vision, atrial fibrillation. It's too dangerous, man, don't do it. I'm already attacking you. Why re-attack yourself?
Oh, don't worry, I know about the side-effects. But it's worth the risk just to have a shot at you. Here goes, pal, here's the first 50 MG coming down my gullet and into your grill. Your reign of terror is done. We will re-establish boundaries. You will learn your place, Otto.
This isn't over, you know. The battle is just beginning. If you keep your dosage high, I nail you with side-effects. You'll shake for hours with a-fib. Your feet will cramp up at night. If you reduce the dosage too much, I come right back at you with the high heat. If you add stress to your joints by participating in sports, you open the back door for me to sneak in again. I can carry this on for four years, you know. You may get doped up on dopamine from the relief that Prednisone temporarily gives you, you may be zonin' on serotonin, but I can carry this on and on and on, and as soon as you make a mistake, your endorphins will become orphans.
Maybe so. But I've run marathons before, 'droid. I'll outlast you. Sometime within the next four years, count on it, I'll be conducting your Ottotopsy.
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