Chapter Two: The Diagnosis Table.

I can't remember my fourth birthday to save my life, but all I know is all I had at the time was my family, Lance, and the kitties - Wesley and Otis. Wesley was a fat and jolly Russian Blue who only had one eye. He was such a badass. Otis was a white manx who apparently didn't go through the full eye colour change. One eye was blue and the other was greyish instead of the orange. He used to run up the walls with his claws.

I was still a normal little one who was still exploring and enjoying life. I was able to run, jump, draw pictures, and perform other simple tasks such as turning a sink faucet. Little did I know, it was the last few months I'd be able to ever enjoy being "normal" again. Therefore, it was taken for granted.

My parents eventually kept examining my right knee. They kept poking it and asking each other questions as to why it was supposedly "swollen". I didn't notice or feel anything wrong. I kept pondering to myself why they were so concerned. I felt fine.

After some time had went by, they eventually brought me to this Chinese pediatrician guy down the street named Dr. Gong (yes, how stereotypical). He thought I had water in my knee. To this day, I can still vaguely remember being placed on a table being held down by what seemed like about five people as he sucked the life out of my knee with a giant syringe. I can vaguely remember the scenery, but I can still remember the feeling clearly. I had "moved around too much", so he did it a second time with another syringe. Imagine being four years old and that happens.

I'm not sure how they found out, nor do I want to even ask. It's an emotional topic to me, and I don't want to sound hormonal when I ask. I just know the diagnosis was JRA positive.

They had sent me to a local hospital to get labs done. It's where they have to draw a couple vials of blood out of your arm. I felt the need to mention what they were because I doubt the healthy people have to get them done. My first lab work was so painful. I'd never had anyone draw blood from me before. I was of course screaming like a little bitch so they had to make another attempt in my other arm.

Eventually, I finally started to feel pain in my right knee. It wasn't anything too unbearable. It was just starting. Then, all of the sudden, within (I'm guessing) weeks, I was dramatically hit with the most painful thing I've ever had to deal with.

Mornings were dreadful. I woke up unable to get out of bed. When I was finally ready to get up, I would limp my way across the house. My knee was the size of a soft ball. Compared to the rest of my scrawny self, that was huge. This was just the beginning. I was too young to understand or even comprehend how long it would last for. In fact, I don't remember even thinking about that. I didn't care. I still thought I was normal because I hadn't actually interacted with other children my age yet.

That thought had changed once my mom had enrolled me in preschool. I remember sitting on the living room floor one day playing with the cat and getting rid of a hangnail when my mom invited me to go with her to enroll me. She had taken me to this church right down my street called "The Little Lighthouse" where I had been enrolled for preschool and Sunday school. Once I got there, I saw how they felt. They made it clear. They felt so bad for me, and I noticed the children were running around and playing as normal children did.

The one lady was so sweet. Her name was Miss Marge. You would have to go up stairs to get the the main classroom, and I remember her helping me up the stairs everyday. I also remember her making a joke and my mom giggling "oh boy, this is why my hair is turning grey". For some reason, I thought it was cute and it didn't upset me. She was to sweet to get mad at. She had passed away of a brain aneurysm several years later. Only the good die young.