One year ago, I accepted the opinion editor position at The Courier Journal in Louisville, Kentucky. This is my first “real job” since 2010 when I worked as the executive director of a small community center in Michigan while freelance writing for magazines on the side.
I was 35 when my joints began swelling. Then the pain set in and fatigue coerced me into daily naps. My doctors couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, but my knee needed surgery. In the recovery room, I finally got a diagnosis: psoriatic arthritis. It’s tricky to diagnose. There’s no blood test for the disease.
My orthopedic surgeon referred me to a rheumatologist who told me that if I had been diagnosed 40 years earlier, I wouldn’t have lived to see 50. The fact my diagnosis happened a decade into the new millennium was supposed to give me hope in modern medicine.
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