WON’T GET ME DOWN

“Not only that, but we even boast of our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance, proven character, and proven character, hope.”

Romans 5:3-4

Neal got a job working at an electrical wholesale distributor. He didn’t make much but it had great growth potential and offered a steady income. I worked on my issues with my fourth counselor in five years. The problem was on me, or so I thought. I didn’t make Neal go. We weren’t quite there yet. I held out hope for the miracle therapist who could fix me. It took years before I recognized that such a term or any inclination that I was one to be ‘fixed’ was false. In time I learned to appreciate my healing journey and the courage it would take to give up relying on others to make me whole and allow God to show me the beauty of who I’d become through my journey.

Once we managed to get through the bumps and hurdles of the first six months of marriage, despite my obvious issues, we found we still enjoyed one another’s company more than we were irritated by the idiosyncrasies.

We were broke but our friends were too which made it easy. Game nights were the rage. One of our favorite games was Compatibility – a game testing the compatibility of you and your spouse or partner. Neal and I always won. On date nights we held up the five dollars we had to spend and roll the dice – Taco Bell for dinner or rent a movie? It was during these times we laughed the most, appreciated the small things and made the most of what we were given.

Traveling an eight state territory was no longer exciting. Delayed flights left me in a panic. One particular Friday I was due to fly from Florida in time for game night with friends. The flight was delayed by three hours.

“Three hours?” I wanted to strangle the attendant behind the counter.

“Yes, ma’am. There were issues with the plane. We have to put you on the next scheduled flight.”

Like Mount St. Helen I erupted. “That is unacceptable!” I slapped my hands flat on the table. In reality, I used a few choice words with that statement. “Are you telling me there are no other flights out of here to Houston sooner than that?”

The woman at first appeared shocked and then mad. “Ma’am, I do not work with people that use that kind of language with me.”

I can’t repeat what I offered in response. With a dramatic turn I stomped away from the desk and to the phone booth. Cell phones were in use but expensive and my company didn’t pay for the plan.

“Neal,” I yelled into the phone loud enough for the entire airport to hear. “My flight is delayed and I won’t get home till probably midnight!” I used my favorite ‘F’ word. I used it quite often to explain how I felt or what I thought. It rolled off my tongue like poisonous venom.

“Calm down,” his voice came across the line like a gentle breeze, “yelling isn’t going to get you anywhere.” Neal could calm me down if it wasn’t about us. When I was volatile he was the direct opposite – easy going.

“I hate flying.” My pulse slowed. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” It wasn’t only a delayed flight or a change in plans that sent my type-A personality into distress mode. Being alone on the road four days a week was hard to endure. Three hours in an airport was like living in hell.

“Then look for another job,” Neal offered.

I stood straighter as if he suggested something unique. “You know what? I am. As soon as we complete this season I’m going to find something closer to home that pays more and no traveling.”

“Good now get a drink and try to relax.”

I didn’t want a drink. Instead, I lugged my twenty-five pound laptop to a wall plug so I could work on my first novel. I bent down to sit cross-legged and pain shot through my knees. I groaned and rubbed them, straightening out my legs. I hadn’t worked out but it felt I’d done 100 squats the wrong way.

I dismissed the pain and went to work on “Jailbait”, my first stab at writing a novel from beginning to end. It was a story of a fourteen year old girl, Emily, and her first love Jason, who was eighteen. Her father caught them having sex for the first time and pressed charges of statutory rape. The plot and characters intrigued me and it was nice to escape into their world and forget I was alone in a hotel room or on a germ infested airport floor.

Weeks passed and the pain didn’t subside. Finding a new job and getting a new car were top priorities. The car would be new to me at least. During college I drove whatever car my dad had available. As a hobby Dad bought wrecked cars and then took them to his high school buddy who owned a body shop to rebuild at a low cost. Often I would get the next car available until Dad was able to sell it.

This time, as a belated graduation gift, Dad found a brand new Mazda MX3 with rear end damage and a reconditioned title. I jumped at the offer to buy the car even though we barely had two pennies to rub together. I knew my parents would work on a payment plan we could afford. My parents had not been to La Porte to see our home since we’d been married so they offered to come down and get us and bring us back to Sherman to pick up the car.

The morning my parents were due in I took ibuprofen for the pain in my knees. I changed the sheets on the bed and went to lift the mattress when my wrists gave out.

“Ah!” I grabbed my wrists. It felt as if they had broken on the spot. I held my arms out in front of me to examine them. I realized they were swollen because I couldn’t see the bone. I looked down at my knees and for the first time realized they were swollen too.

Maybe I got bit by something? I called Neal.

“When I get home I’ll look you over and see if there is a bite anywhere. A spider might have gotten you in the butt. It’s big enough.”

“Ha ha.” I didn’t care to return the dig. I noticed it wasn’t just my knees and my wrists but when I wiggled my toes they hurt too. In fact my entire body was stiff. I’d felt it for awhile but realized I was putting it off as soreness from working out or struggling with the suitcase.

What if it was a brown recluse spider? My heart sped up. I had to sit down.

Neal came home from work before my parents arrived and looked me over from the top of my head to the last toe. “I don’t see a bite anywhere, maybe you’re sick.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

“I feel fine except I’m stiff and then if I move my wrists or when I sit down and have to bend my knees it hurts. Even my toes hurt when I try to wiggle them.”

“Your mom and dad will be here in a little bit. We’ll see what they think.”

Mom and Dad arrived late that afternoon. I was relieved like a little girl knowing her parents would save the day. My fingers were sore and swollen. Neal had to help pull off my wedding ring.

Mom looked me over and didn’t see anything suspicious except for the swollen joints. “I’ll call Dr. Sutherland and see if he can get you in tomorrow afternoon. He works on Saturdays sometimes.” She made the call to our family doctor and I had an appointment for 3pm the following day.

A blanket of peace settled my nerves. I hadn’t set up new doctors, dentists, or anything medical since we’d been married. I knew Dr. Sutherland, and going back home kept the anxiety at bay.

By evening there was a constant throbbing ache in every joint. I went to bed early but woke up to my own screams from pain that ripped through my gut. I had straightened out my legs and it felt as if someone had a hold of my ankle and ripped off each leg at the knee.

“What’s wrong?” Neal woke up, alarmed.

“Ugh.” I couldn’t speak. The pain was intense amplified by every movement. The longer I remained in one position and then tried to move an arm, leg, or even a finger, the pain went from a dull throb to a searing stab.

Neal reached over and rubbed my arm. “Did you take any ibuprofen?”

I nodded in response and wiped my eyes shocked to feel wet cheeks. I’d been crying in my sleep.

“You’ll be okay. Lie down and try to get some sleep.”

After a restless night I woke up to the same searing pain. I’d grit my teeth with every movement I made to get out of bed to endure the torture. My entire body was puffed up like a swollen Texas tic. I shuffled to the bathroom. My fingers curled up because it hurt too much to straighten them and I was hunched over at the waist too afraid to stand up straight because of the pain that came with the effort.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and winced. Overnight I’d aged 50 years. Oh God, what is going on? I considered praying. I hadn’t prayed since Neal and I were married. We rarely went to Mass; instead we indulged in sleep on Sunday mornings after a long work week.

I’m being punished. Guilt mingled with the physical pain. I feebly prayed. You said I was forgiven but this must be for all that I’ve done. This sucks. What more could you do to me?

On the five-hour trip to Sherman, Neal rubbed BENGAY^®cream on my elbows, knees, fingers, and wrists. The pungent fumes nearly burnt off our nostril hairs.

I overheard my parents whisper in the front seat when they thought Neal and I had drifted off in the back.

“I think I had an aunt with RA,” Dad said. “She was in a wheelchair most of the time I remember.”

Mom looked at me through the rearview mirror. “She says it’s in her joints. I don’t know what else it could be.”

I closed my eyes so they wouldn’t know I heard them whispering about my fate. Instead, I thought about all the struggles I’d been through. My fingers curled up in frustration. Stabbing pain shot through my forearm. I turned my head into Neal’s chest and cried.

Neal carried our bags up to the bedroom. The pink walls and flowered curtains were what remained of my teenage past. Antique paintings replaced homecoming mums and the room was crowded with antique armoires my parents picked up at trade shows filled with Mom’s collectibles. I spent nights dreaming about my future as a wife and mother in this room. Those dreams never included my husband pushing me around in a wheelchair.

“Try to take a nap. You still have an hour before the appointment.”

I stood alone in the middle of the room. The hair on my arms bristled. I didn’t feel comfortable being alone anywhere in my parent’s home. When I was a freshman in college I had an encounter with a guy who claimed to have sent spirits there to spy on me.

###

He was a study partner in my Economics class who had a penchant for the occult. One night before our final we studied at his apartment. He claimed he needed a break and asked if I wanted to do the Quiji Board.

“Absolutely not.” I pretended to study but couldn’t get my mind off of the terror that triggered too many dark memories of other terrifying moments in my past. The air in the room thickened and his demeanor changed. I was in danger and feared I was about to be harmed once again. I reached into my memory bank and prayed Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s fervently. By the grace of God it was as if a switch flipped inside his mind.

“Fine I’ll take you home.”

The following morning after the final I did my best to keep distance between us after class but he caught up to me and grabbed my elbow. “You might not want to play with them but they want to play with you.”

His eyes were void of life and color, like two lumps of charcoal. The skin on my neck prickled with recognition. I’d dealt with this evil before.

“Leave me alone. Don’t call me again.” I jerked my arm from his grasp and didn’t look back. I forgot about the threat until a few days later when I’d made it home for the break and my sister saw an heirloom levitate and fall in mid-air. The young man called at that exact moment and relayed in detail what we were wearing, where we were standing or sitting, and what transpired with the heirloom.

It had been four years since that crazy incident. The memory caused my skin to prickle. In trips home over the past four years I’d also witnessed a TV flying off a table narrowly missing my feet, lights turning on and doors opening on their own.

I was crazy. At least I felt crazy. I never spoke about these happenings to anyone, not even Neal.

Fatigue won over fear. I shuffled over to the bed and forced my aching knees to bend so I could scoot on top. I stared at the ceiling fan as it ‘whooshed’ in a dizzying circle.

Flashes of dark memories kept my eyes open wide and my heart racing. These moments of fear and evil hadn’t crossed my mind since dating Neal. A familiar foreboding itched at the base of my consciousness. I was a little girl when it began. My flesh crawled with goose bumps.

I turned on my side and instinctively prayed, “In the name of Jesus, go away.” I smiled. That’s how it started, demanding the enemy to go away.

“He wants you, Shannon.” The abductor’s eyes were pitch black circles. “He wants to stop you.”

“Ah!” I sat up, my heart pounded. For days, weeks, even months as a little girl I heard those words in my head repeated in nightmares. I was eight years old and did not know what it could mean other than the guy who tried to kidnap me wanted me dead. Now as an adult it made sense.

We lived in El Paso where the occult was as common as the Catholic and Baptist church on the neighborhood corner. As kids we created a club to ‘get rid of the devil’ in an abandoned church near the school. We screamed at the top of our lungs, “IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST GO AWAY.”

The devil became real that afternoon. He was no longer just a character in a Sunday school story. “No!” We heard him respond. Every kid that made up the Might Rivera’s club heard him and felt the fear he longed to instill in our hearts. He was the enemy and we were his prey.

A few months after the Mighty Rivera’s confronted the enemy on the afternoon of my near abduction I was saved, literally saved, by the hand of God. While walking home from a friend’s house, a young man grabbed me. He held a knife to my throat and wrapped his arms tightly around my chest as he dragged me in-between two houses.

A primal scream cut through the air as he shoved me to the ground. The young man took off, and I saw my mother run after him. There was no time to react to the miracle of my mother being there in that moment. She was supposed to have been in a meeting. That evening the police informed my parents of the young man’s plans to offer me as a sacrifice. It is unclear as to whether it was for a satanic cult, a possible initiation into a gang, or even as a way to get to my father and his company. One thing is certain. He knew my name. I overheard my parents discussing the unimaginable fact. Instead of fear and horror of what I’d escaped I embraced the peace in knowing God existed and he saved me.

The enemy wanted me, if not dead then crazy. But why? Why do I keep getting knocked down? My heart calmed and the oppressive feeling went away. I looked around the unassuming room and decided maybe the enemy had finally succeeded. I had lost my mind.

Dr. Sutherland’s office was empty when we arrived. It was a Saturday afternoon and most likely ready to close. They called my name, and I shuffled into the office. Every toe on both feet ached as I applied pressure to walk and my knees threatened to buckle beneath me. The nurse looked my way and sat me down in the nearest chair. Pulling a chair up close to mine, she sat down.

“What has brought you in today?”

“Every joint in my body aches. Sometimes it’s like a stabbing pain, but most of the time it is a constant deep ache. I can’t straighten out my legs or my arms and my fingers.” I held up a hand and showed her my fingers curled into a limp fist.

She reached up and grabbed the hand and with care straightened out the arm. With gentle hands she uncurled my fingers and looked at my palm and then turned it over to look at my knuckles. When she finished seeing what she needed to see she laid my hand on my lap and did the same with my other arm and hand.

“When did you have to take off your wedding ring?”

“Yesterday.” Tears welled up. “My fingers were getting so big that it hurt to have the ring on. My husband had to pull it off.”

She sighed and looked at me with sympathy. “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure the swelling will go down soon and you can put it back on right away.” She laid my left hand down on top of my right and picked up the clipboard to jot down some notes.

Dr. Sutherland came in a few minutes later and did the same inspection; this time he straightened out my legs, checked my reflexes and asked more questions. “Let’s get some blood work on you. In the meantime I’ll prescribe a mild steroid that should help with the swelling and pain.”

They took fifteen vials of blood and I didn’t pass out. Neal helped me shuffle out of the office and we headed straight to the pharmacy for the prescription. By Sunday morning I felt much more like myself. The swelling had subsided and I could straighten out my limbs without screaming in agony. My pace was still a bit slow and deliberate, but I could pick up one foot in front of the other without shuffling.

We picked up the Mazda, which lifted my spirits, and by the time we were back home, I was able to ignore the constant ache in my limbs and forget about the unknown cause.

One week later I felt better. The steroids worked and the constant pain was a minor annoyance. I wore my wedding band again and wanted to forget the incident ever took place. I traveled with my supervisor to Colorado for an event at Foley’s, one of our largest accounts.

My boss and I went to use the payphone booths by the restrooms to check our messages. The familiar computerized woman announced I had one new message followed by a beep and a woman’s voice came on the line.

“Hi Shannon, this is Sylvia Pruit, Dr. Sutherland’s nurse. Your blood work is in. If you’ll please call the office at your earliest convenience.” I scribbled the number she gave me on a gum wrapper.

My hands shook. I hung up the receiver and stared at it for a few seconds. Erika, my supervisor, looked over and raised her eyebrow in question. She was in the middle of a call with her direct supervisor. I smiled and shook my head to acknowledge all was fine. Is it? If everything is okay wouldn’t she have told me that in the message?

I scoured through my purse and found four quarters to make the long distance call. The pounding of my heart grew louder in my head as I dialed the number to Dr. Sutherland’s office. The receptionist answered on the second ring, and seconds later I was on the line with his nurse, Sylvia.

“Hi Shannon. Thank you for calling back. Normally we’d have you come in the office but since you don’t live here Dr. Sutherland said it best to call you.”

“No problem.” I kept my voice calm.

“Well, your blood work came back with a high RNA and ANA count which are the markers for rheumatoid arthritis. He would like you to set up an appointment with a rheumatologist in Houston. Once you make the appointment let us know and we will fax them your blood work results.”

Rheumatoid arthritis? Dad was right. I was in shock. I’m only twenty-three.

Forcing myself to speak I croaked out a thank you to the nurse and hung up the phone. I wanted to be calm and act like nothing happened but the tears flowed regardless.

“Shannon?” Erika hung up with her call. She reached over and pulled me into a hug. “What’s wrong?”

“They think I have rheumatoid arthritis,” I mumbled into her chest.

“Oh no.” Her reaction confirmed my dread. Recovering quickly she got louder. “It could be a misdiagnosis. I’m sure you’re all right. You’ll be fine.”

My hopeless future loomed into view. What was it going to be? A wheelchair at forty? My hands permanently slanted and curled up into fists? Or the agony of the pain driving me mad and making me a lonely spinster because Neal would want to walk away from this foreseeable future?

The news left me dejected, angry, and certain there was no hope for a normal life.

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