by Marit Meredith

Created on: February 03, 2007   Last Updated: May 22, 2007

What do you want of me, Lord?

A few short years ago I was sitting in my living room, watching the London Marathon, wistfully realizing that at that moment I couldn't even walk half a mile, let alone run any distance. The Arthritis (Rheumatoid) was particularly troublesome that morning. I watched the wheel-chair participants getting ready, knowing that that too was beyond me, as I didnt have the strength in my hands needed to keep those wheels spinning.

I don't suppose I would have run a marathon if I was hale and hearty either, never having been the sporty type, even when I was growing up. But I used to enjoy a bit of skiing (I grew up in Norway), but not to compete just donning my skis and going off into God's wonderful nature up hill and down hill and cross-country; armed with chocolate and a couple of oranges the sustenance, energy and first-aid of skiers et al. I can still feel the exhilaration of going down- hill for miles (literally) on the last leg, before I hit flat ground, not far from home. And the taste of the ice cold water, drunk from a huge ladle, once I got there.

In the summer I'd go swimming, in the sea, or more often, in the inland lakes. Swimming pools never tempted me. And I walked, going on long hikes with my friends, and later with my husband and young family. All that came to a stop of course, when the Arthritis set in. I was twenty-nine then, with four young children. I started walking again, once it was under some sort of control. We enjoyed our walks.
Later, as the RA took hold, things changed accordingly. I used the car more often than not, and on bad days I stayed at home.

If I sound defeatist, I'm not. It was just that seeing the London Marathon made me realize my limitations. Mind you, if you had taken my pulse that morning, you'd have thought that I was in the middle of my very own marathon!
I was on medication, of course, but what was worse - the arthritis or the side effects of the medication? (I looked at those thousands of pairs of feet, pounding the road and hoped they were wearing cushioning footwear.) Medication affected my memory and often my speech, too. I had been well on my way towards a promising future when the illness flared up five years earlier, having graduated with an Arts degree, but I had to cut short my MA. Perhaps I should have known better than to even have enrolled. I had put in several years of hard work and a lot of travelling by then, as well as looking after my, by then, six children. However, I did come

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