Bursting Into (In)flame

Quick #backpocketpost today I reflect on my experience this past Wednesday.

I never really thought much about “systemic inflammation” before I was diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis. I knew that my c-reactive protein level was way up, but I didn’t appreciate how high it really was, and my body was battling something that not only inflamed my joints but increased my risk of heart attack and stroke by more than 75%. Or so I was told.

Now I think about inflammation all the time. Well versed in those things that create inflammatory responses in my body, I am. Diet seems to be one of the biggest culprits — there’s a genetic marker for this particular autoimmune condition, but I don’t even know if I have it. It wouldn’t change much if I did know, to be honest.

What I’m learning, somewhat (very) begrudgingly, is that I have much to understand when it comes to managing this condition. I don’t have the same kind of energy I once did, and certain inflammation-producing foods can invite serious pain and discomfort.

This past Wednesday I was assisting a friend with an app project, listening as she described the scope, taking copious notes. Because this project involves wine and beer, I was tasting some wine. I didn’t think it was much — in the end I may have had two glasses, max. Beautiful Chardonnays (California, Hungarian and French), and a bit of Italian red.

I rarely drink wine, and if I venture into those waters, it’s usually a celebratory glass of Champagne or Prosecco. And even as I knew better, it appears that I didn’t eat enough before I went to my friend’s place. This became apparent later, when I got home around 10 pm feeling very empty (said friend did put out food; I just didn’t eat enough of it. Passing up cured meats is hard for me to do, but those meat products are inflammatory, and I can avoid them relatively easily). Within an hour from getting home, I got sick, as in vomited.

This had not happened to me from drinking in many years.

But that was just the beginning. I felt…off. My stomach was rolling, and I felt woozy, foggy, a headache forming, my back starting to yell. I went to bed, and fell asleep for about an hour, but when I woke, it was as if the joint pain had traveled throughout my body. Pain spreading like ink in water. I couldn’t find a comfortable position on either side, or my back. I got up, and was surprised and shocked to feel that my hip flexors were so tight it felt as if they could rip at any moment. I dug my hands on each side where the hip meets the leg, basically into the groin, and pushed, as if to break up the rope. Doing so took my breath away.

From about 3:00-5:00 am, I read. I tried to read about AS, but got way too freaked out. I took a Meloxicam, when what I really wanted was a Xanax. I went back to bed and still could not sleep, and at this point I felt desperate, anxious, hopeless. I started to cry, and knew I couldn’t hold it in. I didn’t want to wake my wife, so I gathered my pillows and a blanket and went into the guest room.

I let go. Bawled, my breath taken with every sob. I watched the light come into the window, dawn breaking, the cats circling at my feet. I felt like I was breaking.

Over and over again the same thought turned in my head: This disease, it’s all my fault.

If only I wasn’t fat.
If only I didn’t have all the health problems I’ve had over the years.
If only I didn’t struggle with the ultimate Heavy, which is depression.
If only I’d been more careful, so long ago, and not allowed that horrible man touch me where he had no business touching me.
(There is a school of thought that believes childhood trauma is a leading indicator of whether or not a person will develop an autoimmune disease.)
If only I’d been embodied in my lifetime, instead of so disembodied that I didn’t care. (Sexual abuse can do that to a person, often.)
If only I didn’t love beer and the beer industry so damn much.
If only I hadn’t smoked Camel Lights, even if I was “just a social smoker.”
If only I didn’t adore CHEESE. And beef.
If only.
If.

The list was endless, and I was tired. Extremely tired.

The fact is, I did too much on Wednesday. I had a mole on my nose removed, I picked up my new glasses, I stopped at the grocery, THEN I went to hang with my friend. And I didn’t fuel my body properly.

Finally I slept for about two hours, from 6:15 to 8:15 am, then from about 9-noon. When I woke up, I felt like I could still sleep all day. But I needed to get up, move. I knew I couldn’t put on a happy face and get on the porch for my daily poetry reading (#poemsfromtheporch), so I cancelled it. Then I was out of it all day — my body still hurt, though nothing like it had in the middle of the night, and I was so lethargic that my watch became the thing telling me to MOVE because it felt too arduous to do so. Damn Garmin watch, always meddling (frankly, that’s why I bought it — that, monitoring my heart rate, and tracking activity).

Conveniently I came across something on an AS forum that explained what may have happened to me: Wine is the worst kind of alcohol one can consume when dealing with this particular disease. Both sulfites and tannins (sulfites are the true culprit) can add to the already-intense inflammation caused by alcohol itself (and wine is sugar more than beer is sugar). Some people say that the immunosuppressants we “anky spondy” folx inject react to wine in a particularly noticeable way. Sounds like I had a pretty common reaction.

Sounds like my wine drinking days are behind me.

Sounds like I’m breaking up with regular meat and dairy.

Chafe, chafe, chafe.

I’ve got some work to do. Acceptance is a Fourteener, and I’m no mountaineer.