A Different Answer

I WAS DRIVING HOME AND THINKING over and over, There’s nothing wrong with me. This, despite the doctor saying there was, and then the bombshell he dropped: I would probably have to start giving myself shots.

A little while earlier I had sat across the desk from a pencil-thin rheumatologist wearing a blue button-down shirt. He had already advised me that the first appointment would take an hour and a half. I liked his messy desk; it resembled mine at home. I glanced down at the chart where he pointed. “Your X-rays and blood work indicate that you are in the early stages of rheumatoid arthritis,” he said. “I’m going to prescribe some pills for you, but I expect you’ll decide to