#anrf

Betrugsmasche der Anrufe falscher Polizisten reißt nicht ab

Anrufe falscher Polizisten gehen weiter. (Bild: LKA Mainz)

Bundesweit werden Bürgerinnen und Bürger immer wieder mit der Betrugsmasche “falsche Polizisten” konfrontiert. Die Trickbetrüger haben es insbesondere auf die Ersparnisse älterer Menschen abgesehen. Auch in Rheinland-Pfalz reißt die Serie nicht ab. Die Täter, die sich am Telefon als Polizisten ausgeben, setzen die Angerufenen mit…

Two and a half years ago I was training for my first 10K, when I was told I couldn’t or shouldn’t ever run again.  My metatarsal bone was sawed in half and screwed back together so that my big toe joint could move properly again.  Three inches of scar later I had resigned myself to a life of walking and swimming, and letting Arthur dictate my exercise.

Sometime around March my knees started swelling badly.  Going up stairs at the end of the day became nearly impossible, and I had so much fluid in them I could hear squishing noises in my body.

So I did what any logical person would do.  I started running again.

Now when I say running, I mean it started out as more of a slow winded hobble.  Compression braces kept the swelling in my knees from growing exponentially, and Frozen Peaz ice packs returned my knees back to a reasonable size.

I started slow – walking for a quarter mile, then jogging for one tenth. I’d walk a little, and jog a little, slowly pushing myself to do just a bit more jogging in a row, and a bit more distance overall.  I didn’t care how slow I was moving, because I was moving.

I quickly found that my knees seemed to be loosening up and the daily swelling wasn’t so intense. After reading some articles, my dad and I theorized that running was flushing the fluid through my joint, not letting it stay stagnant, and providing better blood flow.

I have felt so weak since that surgery – a feeling I haven’t enjoyed. My muscles have slowly begun to wake up, and on a recent run I grinned from ear to ear the entire time as I could finally feel my muscles propelling me again!  

Now, this isn’t to say any of this has been easy, quite the opposite.  Some days – all right let’s be real, a lot of days I just feel like I can’t do it.  My back hurts, my knees hurt, my head hurts – you name it.  But I remind myself that every time I finish, I feel better than when I started.  Not to mention the overwhelming sense of pride for kicking Arthur’s ass!  I’ve even been able to stop a couple migraines in their tracks.  Who knew?

So I took the next logical step and joined the Racing For a Cure team created by the Arthritis National Research Foundation.  This gives my running purpose.  Because now, every step I take gets us all closer to a cure.  How you ask?  I keep running and entering races, and I raise money* along the way that goes directly to the ANRF.  A whopping 91 cents of every dollar goes directly to arthritis research! How’s THAT for motivation?

So when I have a tough day, I remember this: each step I take is a step closer not just for myself, but for all of us.  And I’m not the only one! I have been amazed and relishing the support of other rheum runners and team members**.

Now I know we can’t all run, or even walk, but maybe if I do then we’ll all be able to again someday.

I encourage you try something new. Whether that be swimming, gentle yoga while seated in a chair, or playing frisbee with your dog.  The point is to move.  All we can do at the end of the day is try, and if we try hard enough, chances are we’ll reap the rewards.  As an old family doctor of ours used to say, “Motion is Lotion.”

*Want to be my hero and donate to my Racing For a Cure page? Click here! Thank You!

If you follow me on Twitter, it’s likely become apparent that I’ve been hog-tied by Arthur and he is exacting a special kind of torture on me lately.

I don’t always like to write about the low points, because I feel some Herculean (or is it Predsonian?) need to hold the whole world up on my shoulders; but I was reminded by the wonderful women behind the For Grace – Women in Pain Conference recently that these moments are just as important to share.  We don’t always talk about them, because vulnerability is scary.  Yet if no one says anything, we start to believe we may be the only one hitting bottom on that given day.

Let’s back up.  I started Actemra infusions last October, and held out hope that this would be the med to send me on a path to remission.  Waiting for it to kick in, I got by on extended release morphine, without it… well let’s not go there. After a couple months I made the decision to wean off of morphine so I could judge how well the Actemra was working, because I was so utterly convinced it was.

What ensued were knees that are scarily swollen to the point of complete immobility by the end of the day, disks and sacral joints that took two trips to the OR to help alleviate pain, a back that refuses to lie flat at night, and now un upper body rash that through biopsy was just confirmed as a simultaneous staph and rare fungal infection. Don't I sound fun?

For some reason, I was still convinced Actemra and I were on the same page: heading toward remission.  Hope is a funny thing, and has left me in a state of shock since my sit down with my rheumatologist last week.

He entered the room and said, “I’m afraid to walk in here and see how you’re doing.” We both knew in our gut how this appointment would go.  After learning of my dual skin infections and need for aggressive treatment (hey – at least its not med-induced acne this time!), I was still fixated on how this would delay my upcoming Actemra infusion.

“It’s not working.” His words passed through me without incidence. How did we go from extreme hope to this?

Discussing my dwindling medical options, the conversation hung in the air like an eerie fog.  First, I get over the infections. Second, I hold on for dear life because Arthur is about to get “rough” while I have to halt rheum medications. Then, we’ll go from there.

I call my husband, my family, report the findings in a clinical manner, and label this patient as “fine and surprisingly not upset.” When truly, I was in shock.

To manage the growing pain on the freeway drive home, I cranked up the volume and began belting out La Roux,  “This time baby, I’ll be bulletproof.” I burst into tears. I sing louder, realizing I feel far from bulletproof.

These are the low moments in our disease journeys. When we feel scared and alone not knowing where the hell we’re headed next.  Even though I clammed up publicly, I reached out to my autoimmune medical friends, from fellow advocates to various healthcare professionals.  We talked life and strength. I shed more tears.

After allowing myself to be sad for a day (cause that’s healthy from time to time), I woke up the next morning and brushed my shoulders off, Jay-Z style.  I started being proactive, still in shock mind you.  I saw my pain doc, we refilled the morphine so I can function over the coming weeks.  I made goals, so I can feel in control over something.  I’m being kind to myself – its not my fault.