I fried over
80 chickens in my backyard over the course of the snowiest winter in decades in
Georgia, and on into the steaming hot summer months. I cut up chicken by hand
nearly daily. Testing recipes for my fifth cookbook, Fried Chicken, was a physical challenge like I had never
experienced. By the time I finished, no wonder my hands hurt. My pain started
that spring, in 2014, when my hands would be so sore and cramped by the time I
went to bed, I would tuck them under my pillow to encourage them to flatten out
and rest.
That year, my 8-year-old son and I would throw
the football in the yard a few afternoons a week while the weather was warming. We gradually went from a
leather ball to a toddler’s foam football because the impact of the ball on my
hands was so uncomfortable.
My right hand was mainly affected
and I truly thought I had just overdone it in the kitchen. I didn’t take my
discomfort too seriously until my left hand began to hurt. Within a couple of months, the joints on my big toe on my right foot
started aching. My hands began to be stiff for a while after I woke up each
morning. “Can I have a braid?” or “I need help with my buttons” from my
daughter before school became dreaded questions to hear. I went to my general physician and
learned that when pain is mirrored on both sides of the body, it raises some
red flags. She drew blood and I waited.
Her nurse called when I was with my
children at a local indoor trampoline facility where I had promised I would
take them all summer. I sat there in that loud and pretty unpleasant atmosphere (for adults) and first heard the words that I needed to see a rheumatologist. It had been an extremely long time since I was in a public place trying not to cry. From the first ring of that call, that changed.
After several weeks of waiting for
my appointment, I met my husband at the local rheumatologist’s office and got
there just a few minutes before he did. As I sat in the waiting room, the
youngest person by at least 30 years, I was in disbelief. I heard the words
rheumatoid arthritis several times that day, but a few tests had to be run to
start to narrow the answer down to one we could treat. I needed to let go of more
blood than I thought must have been flowing in my veins. I then left with prednisone as the icing on this ironic cake.
I’d seen elderly women with
disfigured hands from rheumatoid arthritis and always felt so sorry for them.
My hands are in every cookbook I’ve written and are often in close-ups on
camera. I’ve served as the hand model
for television commercials you’ve probably seen. I truly kept
thinking I would wake up one morning and realize I dreamed it all.
After much prayer and a lot of time
to wrap my brain and determination around my diagnosis, I’m now ready and relieved
to talk about it and share my journey. It’s one that’s just beginning, but at least
now I have answers to so many of the physical issues I’ve had over the years. Since that first doctor's appointment, I've written my sixth book, The Southern Vegetable Book, and my work and my life in the kitchen are continuing in full swing. Rheumatoid arthritis is going to be with me
for the rest of my life. But, I’m determined my ability to cook anything I want
will as well.
All photos by Iain Bagwell from The Southern Vegetable Book by Rebecca Lang (Oxmoor House, 2016).
Copyright 2016 Rebecca Lang. All rights reserved.
Please visit rebeccalangcooks.com for more information.
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