I didn't fall off the planet - see I'm still here. But my denial is starting to wear off. This is less of a defeat and more of an admission. I have been hoping that because I have been feeling so good, so normal, that the whole chronic illness thing was some anomaly, some bad dream I cooked up for attention. I've got nothing against hope because I embrace my optimistic nature - just look at my Mom. She doesn't mope much and it serves her well. Attitude (cringe, I know how goofy it sounds) does play a part in living the lush life.
A couple of weeks ago, I started getting a rash. A sort of invisible, icky itchiness that woke me from my sleep. Then I got a cough (probably a virus), the pain in my side returned and oh, don't forget the throwing up and gimpy right leg again.
As I sat on my couch, contemplating who I should call, it occurred to me that I was due back to see both my rheumatologist and my neurologist in November. (I am supposed to see them every 3 months.) Calling now becomes awkward and I feel ashamed - embarrassed I didn't come back like I am supposed to and some strange remorseful guilt for being sick in the first place. I still can't shake the feeling that if I eat right, do everything right, I will be in the clear. I know that I didn't ask to get sick but my actions speak otherwise. I somehow believe I really can control my life, and by extension, I won't have symptoms anymore. I guess I need to make some calls today. Set up the appointments. Call it pragmatic hope.