Well. What a difference a day makes. My rheumotologist called me Wednesday - yes, the doctor herself! After pleasantries were exchanged, she got right to business.
"Are you drinking alcohol? No." Have you started taking any medications I haven't prescribed, even OTC stuff? No."
"Well then, I want you to stop your methotrexate therapy immediately, no more injections. Uh, okay...why?"
I'll spare you further transcription of our conversation (you're welcome). My liver enzymes are through the roof on the every-two-months bloodwork I had done on Monday. MTX has started to cause liver damage, which is a pretty common side effect. After a 3 week cleansing period, I will visit the rheum's office for a loading dose of Cimzia, her strong recommendation for my first biologic. She has urged me to go with Cimzia, because it's much faster acting than the other drugs in its class, and we'll know in 90 days if it's going to work, rather than the grueling 6-9 month trials other drugs require to assess effectiveness.
Ironically, all my angst over starting a biologic drug, and my triumphant decision to give it the go ahead, lovingly committed to the ether here on my blog, is essentially moot - a complete waste of the energy and importance I gave it. Maybe this will seem humorous at some point in the future ... the faaaarrrr future.
Right now, it just seems like another of ra's dirty little tricks, another insult to body & mind & the fragile illusion of control that I continue to cling to.
Being an unrepentant control freak, I don't handle these twists & turns so well. It reminds me of an experience as a passenger in a 1969 Camaro hotrod a few years back. As the ranger of a state park that contained the steepest, curviest 3.4 mile mountain road in New England, I hosted a number of races on that road - foot races, luge (where the fools ride skateboards 60 mph down the twisty road lined with huge boulders - but that's a story for another day), bicycle races, and of course car races. I was offered a ride in the Camaro during a practice run for the semiannual car races. Sounded cool. Might have been if I were driving, but the guy who was driving decided he would do his best to make me pee my pants. For months after, the only vehicles I rode in on that mountain road had me at the wheel - did I mention I like control?
Guess I need to just buckle up, because apparently ra is in the driver's seat on this ride. Control is just an illusion.