I easily can remember the day that my life shifted into a new kind of normal when I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. At the age of 24, having dealt with a few weeks of swelling in various parts of my body, sometimes to the point of being disabling, my doctor called me at work with the test results. I had a positive rheumatoid factor, she explained, which most likely meant that I had rheumatoid arthritis. Faking confidence, I asked her, “On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being normal, what can I expect my life to be like from here on out?” She did not wish to answer, but after I told her I needed some kind of scale to know what side I was up against, she reluctantly replied, “If you are lucky maybe a six.”