Throughout my day, I wander free; you would not know there was aught wrong with me.
Then, in mid-stride or turn, a bolt, a knife-like strike of pain turns me hobbling and wobbling.
With frame bent double, face aged and drawn with pain, it’s that damned arthritis at me again.
I wish someone could explain why it ebbs and flows between crescendos, and is no respecter of age.
Why can’t this hideous disease make up its mind to take a bow and vanish as quickly as it came?
Without leaving a trail of crippling damage as it passes on the way out.
There are organisations around to help, and research is moving at a cracking pace.
Don’t wait until the first debilitating, painful sign; sling a pound or two in the next time you see an authorised collection tin.
It might prevent, for all time, chronic pain impinging on your life, as it has on mine.
2024 © Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Photo: Pixabay License
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