I have passed the three-year mark with the official diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis.  I am better in some ways. I can work the disease better. I am worse in some ways. The damn thing just won’t go away. I remember when I realized that I only see my rheumatologist at best every six weeks and at worst every three months. I realized that I was on my own most of the time. I was on my own to manage my rheumatoid arthritis, two cancers, my home, my life. And if I didn’t take charge, no one would. At 72, I had better get busy. I did think about it. One choice was to withdraw into myself. My rheumatologist said many do. I also had the choice of focusing on the here and now and managing my situation. Historically, when I have been in a bad place I have felt sorry for myself a bit. I call it whining. A little is okay. It is just something a person sometimes needs to go through. …