It all started in my feet during a week of make-overs on Live with Regis & Kelly. My feet, in designer heels were killing me. Overdid on the treadmill. Too much running around in the city. I had it all figured out.

Or so I thought. By mid-week the pain had traveled up my ankles to my knees. Sneakers to the rescue. Should have thought of it earlier.

Back in LA at an Orthopedics’ office. X-rays. Nothing. Positive he had missed something I made an appointment with another Orthopedic. Still no damage, even though my legs and feet told me otherwise.

The Orthopedic recommended me to a rheumatologist. I had no idea what a rheumatologist was and he didn’t explain. One exam and blood work later he informed me that nothing appeared wrong with me. He recommended a cutting edge Rheumatologist at UCLA. Denial being my mode of operation, I never thought to ask him what a rheumatologist does or why I needed another opinion. Couldn’t he just give me a prescription?

Walking from the parking lot to the office at UCLA was agony. A very busy doctor came in and examined me, had blood drawn and quickly disappeared saying if I could wait he would give me a diagnosis.

One hour later he announced that nothing was showing up in my blood but he was going to make an educated guess and say I had “Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

Pictures of old and crippled people flashed through my head and tears flowed down my face. How can a fashion reporter on TV have an old and crippled disease? And what in the world is rheumatoid? Devastated I barely listened to him telling me that many times the disease doesn’t show up in the blood for months. Take these anti-inflammatories and he would see me in a few weeks.

Four doctors and all I had was an educated guess. I was positive they were all wrong. I had just overdone on the treadmill. Manic was after all my middle name. I traded in my designer heels for stylish sneakers, stayed away from the treadmill and diagnosed myself. After all, I was a fashion reporter who knew a lot about style. Arthritis didn’t fit into my style.

Sure enough my feet got a little better but fatigue was overwhelming my body and aches and pains were popping up all over. Stress. It was just stress my denial told me. And I listened and believed.

On my second visit my sed rate was slightly elevated. Translated, Rheumatoid Arthritis. Most people would have read up on the disease. Not me, didn’t want to know. I preferred stress.

By my third visit I was in serious pain. Fatigue and sore joints. The doctor changed my prescription for something stronger.

As I look back at my denial and naiveté I realize I was one lucky lady to end up at a teaching hospital with an aggressive doctor. I was a foolish patient. I didn’t want to know, I just wanted to get better, but that wasn’t going to happen, not for a very long time. In fact I would get worse. Much worse. But my aggressive doctor would add, subtract and change my medications, always keeping me well enough to work.

Denial was the wrong path but it was the only one I could get my head around. In hindsight I was so wrong not to get involved in my medical care. I was a compliant patient but an uninformed one. I didn’t want to know. It worked for me only because I had a great doctor who never gave up hope even when I felt all hope was lost.