Imagine a tormentor - a sadist

invisibly at work, and though you have confessed

signed your life away you cannot be rid of him. 

There is no cure, no end to it, only moments of relief

when you can draw breath - and some comfort,

but that tormentor knows all the tricks

he has the permission of your immunity

condemning you like Judas Iscariot.

 

We call this rheumatoid arthritis

people don't usually understand it

but they know of arthritis, wear and tear

yes, a relative will have had that....

still a trial, but not this festering blood bound

contagion that swims through you

and never comes up for air. 

 

We can still love that old chair that limps on

with uneven legs and creaking joints,

but an invasion of woodworm - quite another matter. 

Some days are easier than others she says

and rests heavily on bravery.

No one sees the evidence, it is a lonely battle. 

 

Though there are aids to be had - wet rooms

an assortment of gadgets, a disabled badge

the long experiment to find the right drugs,

the certainty is that there can be no cure.

 

When telling people you have it  their eyes glaze over:

if they can't spell it in the bin so to speak.

With cancer you get the full shock, the sympathy,

publicity, the push for knowledge.

This condition is not life - threatening, just threatening.

But some days are easier than others, she says

implying that today might just be one.