And so it begins. My succumbing.
To Bisphosphonates, that is.
I have resisted for over two years, or longer. It’s been a tug of war between my rheumatologist and me. I am the first to admit, I am not the most compliant of patients. I didn’t like what the literature had to say about these drugs and I chose to abstain, after consuming them sporadically for a few years.
His one complaint about me, to my hearing at least, is that I read too much. But, I believe your health care is a compact between you and your doctor. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with my being a nurse. I always saw doctors and nurses working in partnership, in tandem, though they didn’t see that way for the most part.
Now this particular war is over. My bone density test wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, excuse the partial pun, but it’s come time to grit my teeth and swallow. I don’t even know what he ordered. If it’s something I have to take once a week, or once a month, or . . . never? I just know it’s ready and waiting because my pharmacy texted me before I even reached home from his office. “Irma, your order is available for pickup.” Shouldn’t that be ‘pick up’? Two words?
Digital-age surprise awaits me tomorrow. A little pharmaceutical gift. Another modern medicine marvel to join the ones that already make themselves at home in my medicine curio. One positive in all this is that Prednisone gets kicked to the curb. Or I should say, gently eased to the curb. It doesn’t like any rough stuff, but as it likes to eat bone, it’s got to go. We might have to add another ingredient to my RA cocktail to replace what benefit I derived from it, but time will tell what and when.
I can’t complain, though. The other thing he says about me after every visit is: You’re doing very well. I suppose everything is relative. To him. But, I do feel a little askew. And maybe that’s why I subconsciously chose to place the borders to my panel quilt off-kilter last night.