Yet sometimes, I feel like I waste every fucking second of every fucking day. It’s a rather frustrating way of life, ya know. I’m not sure, can’t quite put a finger on it. You ever get that feeling that your gut is trying to tell you something? And you either can’t understand it, aren’t sure if you’re following it, or aren’t sure you can trust it? Kinda how I feel at the moment. Not clear on what my gut is telling me. Or if I am, not sure I trust it…
I haven’t eaten a morsel of red meat in months. Not a chip of chocolate has passed my lips in about as long. I abstain from alcohol. Still, my ankle is growing gouty and stiff. That familiar feeling of the night before an acute attack is rapidly setting in. Just behind my right ankle on the instep side, it’s as though the space is being filled with bad blood. Gout blood. Shards of uric acid crystals collecting in my joint like a group of teenagers with forties on a street corner in East Falls. And those motherfuckers are hard to run off. If my medicine were patrol cars, it would take quite a few laps around the block before the kids disperse. This feels like an attack that’s gonna settle in for a spell. And I have no explanation for it’s onset.
In fact, today I went and picked up a form from my rheumatologist that will hopefully result in my receiving the expensive-ass prescription free-of-charge. A little while back, I lamented about not having any health coverage. Well, thanks to the quick thinking of a reader, I learned that many pharma companies will provide their products at little to no cost. All I have to do is prove I’m broke. They’ll send me the meds for a small price. But, if I can show I’m broke as a motherfucking joke, the meds are free. I faxed the application; I’m not sure what level of brokeness they’ll approve. When all is said and done, however, I will have what I need to hopefully prevent any of these exceedingly inconvenient gout flare ups.
Tonight, I was down East Falls, coaching our tee ball team. Out on the field, feeding baseballs into the machine for the kids batting. At one point, one of the opposing team’s kids threw a ball back to me. It rolled to my left and I made a move to get it; that’s when I felt it in my ankle. The stiffness. From that moment forward, I could sense the impending gout.
Sure enough, I’m now at home, sitting with my foot elevated as the mobility flees my foot. This fucking blows. I just hope it doesn’t last long. I can’t afford to be apartment-ridden…
So, after all that time I waited to have the doctor fill out a form (took him three weeks, then they lost it) and all the running around I did today to retrieve it and fax it, my body decides to play a cruel fucking joke on itself and get gout NOW!!! On top of that, everything else I do seems to be a fucking waste as well. This is why I hate getting gout so much: I get all pissed off, and a bunch of other aspects of life seem to be shit as well. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
I’ll drink my cherry juice tonight, load up on some more tomorrow. I’ll pay the gastrointestinal price and hopefully be in the clear within a few days. Sometimes I just feel like I. Can’t. Fucking. Win.
On a good note: the Phillies won tonight. The kids we coach, that is. 2-0 in the young season. We have a date with the 2-0 Orioles coached by my buddy Bobby on Saturday. I love coaching. It’s such a friggin’ joy, I’ll tell ya. Tonight, we had a few kids take their first at bats off the pitching machine in their early careers. They made contact! One girl got a base hit and was SO HAPPY! That’s good stuff, right there. Definitely makes me feel—nay, know—that I’m not wasting my time. Best part of coaching is when a kid gets his or her first hit off the machine. Can’t beat that with a gouty foot!!
Thanks for reading, friends. I appreciate all your support, tacit, implied, or otherwise. Subscribe. Comment.
Oh, how’s this for a spell check: It suggested “dermatologist” in place of rheumatologist. Fucking computers. And you think you can take over the world? Fat chance.