So, Eric and I are in Las Vegas, frolicking among the craps tables, roulette wheels, slot machines, and the elderly, scooter-riding, oxygen-wearing, smoking emphysematics who play said machines ("One time, baby. One time!"). Oh, and the drunks (of whom I no doubt will be one at some point during this trip). And the lights. And the noise. And the regular shows. And the "special" shows. And....
I know it sounds like I hate Vegas, but the truth is that I love it. I really do. I get a thrill every time I'm here. Put some dice or cards in my hand and I'm ready to spew chips around and gamble.
Gambling. We hear time and time again that "all of life is a gamble." And while that aphorism is true, perhaps no one recognizes its truth more than those who live with chronic illness.
With few exceptions, wasn't it a roll of the dice, a turn of the card, the placement of a ball, the draw of a number, that got us where we are today -- living with RA? I mean, sure, maybe there's some unknown or unrecognized genetic component that might have nudged us ever so slightly toward this diagnosis, but metaphorically speaking, it's as if we were standing at the roulette wheel and "won" (RA) with our all chips on 29 Black.
So here we are with RA. And suddenly it's as if we're actually living in Vegas. Think about it. Vegas is always "on," always in overdrive, a blur that 's pregnant with excess. And so are our immune systems: They're lit up with activity, trying to soak up every bit of energy that they can.
The problem, of course, is that in the case of RA, what happens in Vegas doesn't stay here. We get tired of it all, and we want to go home. We want peace, quiet, tranquility. And so we return home to what's familiar.
But like a bad dream, Vegas follows us there. Having arrived, we place quarter after quarter into the machine in a frantic attempt to appease the bright, turning, noisy clamor within: NSAIDS, anti-malarials, antibiotics....
Will any of it ever stop? Will we ever hit a jackpot?
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