Lessons from Systemic Lupus

When I was eleven, I became seriously ill with what doctors eventually diagnosed as systemic lupus. I had fever, nausea, and pain, and my parents took me from one doctor to another, traveling to the nearest large city to find people who could help us understand what was happening.

When you are a child, a hospital can feel like an entire universe. There are strange machines, serious conversations happening above your head, and adults trying to look calm while their eyebrows tell a different story.

Lupus affected my kidneys. I developed anemia and a kidney infection, along with stomach parasites, and I spent a couple of weeks in the hospital. Afterward, I received chemotherapy and other strong medical treatments, and I followed a sodium-restricted diet for several years to support my kidneys.

This is my memory of that time, not a medical guide. Lupus can affect people in different ways, and anyone living with it deserves care from qualified medical professionals. Nobody should stop medication or replace prescribed treatment with belief, food, meditation, or a wellness program.

Learning to taste one chip

I used to love salty snacks. During the sodium-restricted years, I found a strange little way to keep some pleasure in the experience. I would take one chip and eat it in tiny bites, sometimes stretching the whole process to thirty or forty-five minutes.

I also tried tasting a single grain of salt before eating unsalted food. Somehow, that small burst of flavor helped the rest of the meal taste more satisfying.

It was not a medical treatment. It was a child finding a tiny island of control in a situation that contained a lot of things I could not control. One grain of salt can feel surprisingly important when the entire bag has been placed under house arrest.

The kindness that showed up

I also remember how many people cared for us. The owner of a video rental business gave my father free rentals while I was in the hospital. People took me to favorite restaurants when I was well enough to eat normally. Friends, relatives, and even people we barely knew offered gifts, attention, and practical help.

Pain is part of the memory, but it is not the only thing I remember. The kindness became louder with time. It shaped the way I try to treat other people now, especially when I notice that someone may be carrying a private struggle.

That lesson has a shadow too. Being openhearted does not require having no boundaries. Some people may take advantage of kindness, and protecting yourself does not make you less generous. The door can stay open, but it is perfectly reasonable to install a doorbell.

Faith, hope, and careful language

During my illness, my family also took me to spiritual workshops and healing seminars. As a child, I believed deeply that I was healing. Around that period, my medical tests improved, and I eventually experienced a long period without medication.

I cannot prove that my beliefs caused the medical improvement. The improvement may have involved many factors, including medical treatment, time, the changing course of the illness, and circumstances I did not understand. My spiritual experiences gave me hope and meaning, but hope should not be confused with a cure, and my story should never be used to promise remission to someone else.

What I can say is this: be thoughtful about what you believe, especially when someone is selling certainty. Choose beliefs that help you stay engaged with reality, qualified care, compassion, and your own ability to ask good questions.

For gentle support around stress and wellbeing and keeping meditation simple, explore those reflections as complementary practices. They are not substitutes for rheumatology, medication, diagnosis, or individualized medical care.

The deepest lesson I carry is not that faith resolves illness. It is that care can arrive from many directions, treatment matters, love matters, and a child who is scared can still find a little flavor in one tiny chip.

Frequently Asked Questions