For the third time in two months, I sat on my orthopedist’s examining table explaining once how debilitating the arthritis in my knees had become. Together, we’d tried everything — medication, injections, physical therapy, ice packs, hot compresses and, most recently, arthroscopic surgery. The procedure only left my knees more swollen and sore. As I implored him, my doctor just shook his head. Though I would eventually be a candidate for knee-joint replacement, he said, he hesitated to do the surgery at this point since he felt I was still too young at age fifty-six.
First diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my thirties, I accepted my destiny. My grandmother had terrible arthritis at a young age. My mother spent her last two years in a wheelchair. A favorite aunt required a hip replacement. Of course, I had arthritis; it ran in the family.
Regardless, I did everything I thought I could to remain limber. I avoided eating inflammatory foods, walked two miles daily and practiced yoga. Yet, I’d come to accept certain limitations the conditions had placed on my life. When I was unable to open a jar, I’d blame it on my arthritis. When I found it difficult to walk stairs, I’d blame it on my arthritis. Climbing a ladder to trim a tree branch or climbing on a step stool to reach the top shelf had become out of the question. So, it came to be that whenever I was unable to keep up physically with some task, I’d say, simply, “Well, I can’t… I have arthritis.”
Yet, at some point, even daily activities became agonizing. One evening, after having dinner out with my husband and his sister, I was unable to walk across the restaurant parking lot to the car, even with the help of my cane. The pain was excruciating. Dressing was difficult. Getting up from the sofa was tough, too, and I’d find myself having to push my hands against its frame in order to stand. And that yoga class I loved? I had to quit. But the final blow came when I was out shopping at the mall one day.
On what was one of my better days, I was able to spend part of one afternoon strolling the mall. Before leaving for the drive home, I decided it would be a good idea to visit the ladies’ room. And here’s where it gets a bit embarrassing. I was unable to get up from the commode. The fixture was apparently lower than mine at home, and my knees were not strong enough to help project me upward. Eventually, I was able to pull myself up somehow, with tears streaming down my face.
“Is this what’s become of me?” I asked myself. “If this is is my predicament now, where will I be in ten years? In twenty years? Will I be wheelchair-bound like my mother, only at a much younger age?
That was my turning point. I was fed up with arthritis. I decided to give arthritis back to wherever it came from in the first place. I didn’t want it anymore. So, I started walking daily again. First, I could go one or two painful blocks at a time, gritting my teeth, and repeating over and over, “I don’t have arthritis.” I resumed a yoga practice at home, initially doing seated poses that didn’t strain my knees. Soon, I worked up to some easy standing postures, reminding myself with each movement, “I don’t have arthritis.” Each time I had to raise myself from a seat, with my knees screaming at me, I screamed louder: “I don’t have arthritis!”
At first, I noticed subtle improvement. Even the smallest victory was encouraging, so I continued affirming to myself that I did not have arthritis anymore. Last week, I walked to my library, a four-mile roundtrip, pain-free. I can get up off the sofa — and other places — with no problem. Six months ago, I returned to my yoga class. Joint pain and limitations are no longer a part of my life. Just ask me the reason and I’ll give you my answer: I don’t have arthritis.
