Father's Day Appreciation Post

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today is going to be a special post. Sunday, June 20 was Father's Day, so today is going to be a special post. This post is for my amazing father.

 

I did a post like this for Mother's Day, and I enjoyed it so much that I decided to do one for Father's Day as well. If I give my mother credit, I have to give it to my father as well. They're a pretty dynamic team.

King, Alexandria. Musings of an Arthritic Artist. 2021

As I mentioned in my Mother's Day post, my mother is always the one at home taking care of me. Even though my father hasn't helped me a lot here at home (though he still opens containers, jars, and cans that I cannot), he still deserves appreciation. 

Like my mother, he was determined to get me the medical care I needed when I was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis. Without him, we wouldn't have been able to afford the out-of-town trips. There are no Pediatric Rheumatologists where I live, so I always had to go 600 miles out-of-town for appointments. 

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When I was around 7, I was on methotrexate. For those who don't know, methotrexate is a DMARD (disease-modifying anti-rheumatic drug), the same classification as Enbrel and Humira (both of which you may have seen on a television commercial). 

Methotrexate is a medicine that is used to treat cancer patients, but doctors and medical researchers found that in lower doses, it could be used to treat individuals with certain types of arthritis, including rheumatoid arthritis and juvenile idiopathic arthritis. It can also be used to treat severe psoriasis. 

DMARDs are a more potent medicine classification than NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug). Medicines that count as NSAIDs can be both prescribed and over-the-counter, while DMARDs can only be prescribed. Medicines under the NSAID classification include naproxen, ibuprofen, and aspirin, though there are many more. 

I was on the injections, not the pill, meaning every week I had to have a shot. Normally, you'd go to the doctor to have your shot, but we weren't going to be able to travel 600 miles every week (my sister was still in school and my father works). So, it became my father's job every weekend to inject the methotrexate into my leg. 

Technically speaking, it could've been injected into other parts of my body (my arm being the most notable), but my parents asked me if I wanted it in my leg or arm. I chose leg because it tended to hurt less.

I know this wasn't easy for my father. Because I'm an empath, I could tell. What father wants to say that they have to inject their child with medication every week? What father would even want to think of that as a possibility? My father had a hard job (I'd probably consider it harder than the actual job he has), even if he didn't really have a choice.

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My father never missed an out-of-town appointment. He was always there, no matter what. He would pay for the medical bills. We were never poor or in debt because my dad has a steady well-paying job. 

There are times I feel guilty because of this. The guilt ebbs and flows like how Earth's tides are affected by the moon. Sometimes, it'll come down on me suddenly. Other times, it's nothing more than a passing thought. I feel guilty, even though none of it is my fault. I didn't ask to have a defective body. I didn't ask to be able to relate to the tin man from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. 

This didn't happen much when I was a child. It mostly started after my 12th birthday. I felt guilty about how expensive it was to get medical care for me. About how expensive I was. I was not an easy--or inexpensive--child to raise. 

For many years, my family and I had to travel every three months for appointments. We would drive over 600 miles. I don't even want to think about how much the gas, hotels, appointments, and prescriptions cost together. My family--especially my father--has made so many sacrifices for me, it's not even funny. 

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Much like my mother, there are many things I'm thankful for regarding my father, many of which have nothing to do with my arthritis. Because of him, I know how a lot of the mechanics of transportation vehicles work. 

I know how helicopters work and about the importance of safety wire. I know how to fix quite a few things on a car thanks to him showing me how the engine works and looks, along with him asking me to help him. I know many things about military history.

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My father could've walked away and left forever the moment my mother told him that if they had a kid, they could potentially be disabled and have a medical condition, but he didn't. He stayed. 

Even after I was diagnosed at nine months old and certified disabled at seven or eight years, he still stayed. He didn't care that I was physically defective. I was his child, and nothing was ever going to change that. 

By the time I was born, my parents had already had my sister about nine years before, but that doesn't matter. My father could've left despite that, but he didn't. Even when my mother told him the risks, he didn't leave her. 

Even if he wished for his kid(s) to be 100% healthy, he was prepared if they weren't. I'm not going to say it was easy for him. I know it wasn't. I don't think it's easy for anyone. It's not easy for family members, and it's not easy for the person with the medical condition.

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I'm thankful for the father I've had the pleasure of growing up with. I truly am. Flaws aside (nobody's perfect; we all have them), I couldn't have asked for a better father. 

This post is for you, Daddy. I know you're reading this. Thank you for everything. I love you. Happy Father's Day!  

That's it for this post! 

See you Thursday, 

Lexi K🖌