I don’t have any ill feelings toward Tiffany for leaving. I gave her a tear-filled hug and waved her off after helping her pack because I’m happy for her even though I knew I’d be screwed in the long run. When I got the eviction notice, I wasn’t surprised. I’d like to think the property manager even felt slightly bad for me, not that the sweet older man could do anything about it.
So, here I am.
Poor.
Living in my car.
All so I can afford the medicine I need to stop my psoriatic arthritis from getting worse.
I know I’m lucky in the grand scheme of things. At least the doctors figured out why I was always in pain after dealing with stiff and achy joints, random rashes, and chronic fatigue for years. I know some people have a much longer diagnosis journey than me, so I should be grateful to have medicine preventing the disease from spreading. But it doesn’t make spending money on the treatment any easier, especially when funds are so low on the daily.
I tell myself not to complain, though there are days when the pity party starts and I’m the only one invited. Then I remember the few bad experiences I’ve had from the first doctors my mother took me to when the rash on my face kept reappearing and my fingers would constantly hurt. After the general practitioner I’d seen first made me feel like it was all in my head and suggested therapy and anti-depressants, I’d gotten a different opinion that led to the referral to a local rheumatologist. I’d had hope, but that was short lived. The initial doctor I’d gotten an appointment with was an older gentleman who could barely hear a thing. I’d repeated myself ten times and he still logged the wrong information into the computer, never letting me explain my history or get a word in otherwise. He’d passed his judgement the second I told him I was the patient after he’d looked between me and my mother the moment he walked into the room.
The words he asked still taunt me to this day. Are you sure you’re not overexaggerating like young girls tend to do?
When you’re young, very few people want to take you seriously. You’re either seeking attention, drugs, or making it up because you’re crazy. If my mom hadn’t encouraged me to see another specialist, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Sure, that would probably include not being homeless, but I’m sure I’d be too sick to even think about moving across the country to live out my dreams of writing for the press.
You’re lucky, I remind myself despite my current circumstances. I do what Grandpa Al used to whenever he’d have his doubts. I think of three things I’m grateful for. His were always the same—Grandma Birdie, me, and his health.
One is instant. I have a wonderful family who love and support me even from nearly 3,000 miles away.
Two comes as quickly. I have a best friend who lets me vent whenever life gets to be too much without judging me for it.
And then there’s three. I have a job. It may not pay much these days, and I may not have any insurance, but it’s work. Better than some people have considering the tents set up on sidewalks for the homeless population that grows every single day. At least I have a car and an income, as small as it may be.
Taking a deep breath, I nod to myself and roll my shoulders back. Those three things are worthy of being thankful for, so I chant that to myself a few more times before staring at the sad apple and dry nut-based granola bar waiting for me as dinner. I know it isn’t going to cut it but I’m not willing to drive into the city for something on a fast-food dollar menu, and I have to eat something so the medicine doesn’t make me sick like I’ve learned the hard way in the past.
Clicking on one of the interior lights to see better, I grab my water and begin going through my nightly pill routine. I curse to myself when I realize I’m low on supplies, which means I’ll have to go to the pharmacy soon to pick up what I need. I’m already cringing at the thought of the number the screen will show that’ll drain even more from my account, but there’s nothing to do but suck it up and look around for another job to supplement my income until I figure out a better option.
I count my blessings that tonight isn’t injection night. I used to hate needles, but there’s really no way around using one ever since the doctor told me I’d need to be on injectable immunosuppressants for the rest of my life to counter the inflammation in my body. I’ve learned to adapt, even if I have to close my eyes before stabbing myself with my syringe that gives me my dose of medicine.
If I roll the hem of my shirt up I’d find small spots along my lower abdomen where I inject each of my doses since I was taught to rotate the sites. It still freaks me out, but I don’t cringe as much since getting the hang of it. The hospital educator, a lovely woman Mom and Dad took me to when I was still on their insurance, taught me the do’s and don’ts—things I’ve had to engrave into my mind that way I don’t mess up or hurt myself when it’s time to self-administer each week.
Moving across the country to an entirely different coast means not being covered by my mom’s insurance like I would have until 26, the age I’m turning way sooner than I’d like to accept. She
