Biochemistry and Shingles

One semester rolled into the next, and before I knew it I had completed my first semester away at school on my own while achieving a 3.8 grade point average. I exhaled, feeling relieved that I made it through a semester on my own. My body hadn’t completely won. I hadn’t been completely taken out. As challenging as it had been on all accounts, I had made it. And that was something, for the first time in a while, that I could be proud of. As broken as I felt, I knew my heart and my mind were still in there. Still in there fighting. They hadn’t died like the other parts of me had. Sure, there was a lot I had to give up. While I could walk again, I was unable to play volleyball, a passion of mine for as long as I could remember. During my time at Roberts Wesleyan I started a co-ed league and faithfully played every night. Many friendships were made out of that game. It was just something I really loved. And also happened to be good at. My friends used to joke I would be playing volleyball on my honeymoon. I knew that was over for me. The prednisone had thinned my skin out so that passing the ball created extreme pain. The joints in my hands screamed in pain when I went to serve the ball over-hand. And so I was left with a scar from where that dream had been taken away. Another love of mine was the sun. I would lie in the sun all day if I could. I loved going to the beach, and growing up on the shoreline I would often take long runs down to the beach, take a swim and then run home. It made me feel free. It made me feel alive. It made me feel well. I knew I could no longer be in the sun. Sun exposure led to activation of my disease, even just for a short while. This meant joint pain, hair loss and painful rashes. My mom made it her mission to search online and purchase expensive high quality sunscreen and some ‘sun protective’ clothing. I hated the idea of smelling like sunscreen in the winter. I wasn’t looking for any more reasons to be different. More, the clothes she had picked out looked like I was ready to go on an African safari, not to biochemistry class. I refused to wear either out of sheer protest for my disease. That didn’t stop my mom from trying. Or from worrying for her girl. It angered me how many angles of my life lupus had seemed to penetrate.

But there was one angle that I seemed to have been able to wall off. And that was my studies. My dream of becoming a doctor hadn’t gone anywhere. In fact, it seemed the harder things got, the more I pushed. It was frustrating, being at a third school in four years. It didn’t seem fair to have had to jump around so much and lose so many friends, and also losing class credit in the process. These were not the general education classes that needed repeating either. No. They were organic chemistry, both the class and the laboratory. They were the physics and the calculus. Once was MORE than enough. And now, at a school known for its science program? Intimidated, I took my fears and used them as energy to fuel my studies, determined not to fall behind. After a while I even started to enjoy it. It became like a game to me. The organic chemistry. The biochemistry. The cell biology. The physics. I had never done better in my studies. To me, they became a doable challenge. It was my life that was hard. It was my life that had gone all wrong. And I knew that was a lot harder to fix than some scientific equation.

My second year at UCONN, my final year as an undergraduate and molecular and cellular biology major, I had a professor take a special interest in me. She was a kind woman with lots of pant suits, brown glasses and brown bouncy curls. I remember watching her sit behind her desk with her black dress and black heels, eating a tub of cottage cheese, stating “it was the perfect food”. I told her of my hopes of becoming a doctor despite my diagnosis with lupus these past few years. She invited me to come work for her in her biochemistry lab which I happily accepted, knowing full well it would look good on my medical school application. I knew she knew that too. It felt good to have someone in my corner. Someone who was well respected rooting for me. Someone referred to as “Doctor” cheering for me. While I was very interested in the classwork of biochemistry, the lab work itself was mind numbingly boring. DNA sequencing, PCR analysis, Western blots and serum protein electrophoresis were all skills I learned to tolerate. Unfortunately, the others in the lab did not do well to disprove the unsocial lab rat stereotype. I tip toed around my first few weeks, hoping to find my way and learn the ropes. A heavier girl with brown thin hair and lots of freckles sat at the desk next to mine. She didn’t have a lot to say, and I knew we didn’t have a lot in common, but over time we became friends. Soon, I was going to the lab in between classes to have lunch there and study there. It became a nice place to hide out in the middle of the day.

A few weeks later I came into the lab and sat down. I noted a young guy with glasses sitting three chairs down. He wasn’t much for conversation, and I never did learn his name. As I pulled the books out of my bag, I noticed some redness on my chest. It was sore to touch. My mind began to race. Had I eaten anything unusual? I had no food allergies. I had no recent trauma or friction to my chest to cause this. I tried to ignore it and began to look over my notes for the upcoming class. I felt the rash get warm and more uncomfortable as the moments passed. Exasperated, I grabbed my cell phone and quickly escaped outside behind the building. I knew I needed to talk to Dr. Arnold. She would know what to do. Over the past few months I had been switched from my immunosuppressive medication Cellcept to a different drug called Imuran, as Cellcept had begun to give me daily headaches. I knew Imuran was referred to as a “gentle chemotherapy”, but it was in pill form so I tried to think of it no differently than that of Cellcept. Really, I tried not to think about either at all. I was put right through to Dr. Arnold. She told me she believed it was shingles. Shingles? Wasn’t that something that 89 year olds get? How was that possible? Unfortunately, the Imuran had suppressed my blood cells too severely, causing the old chicken pox virus that had been dormant to awaken, giving me shingles. I was placed on antiviral therapy and told to stay away from any pregnant women. Unfortunately, there was a pregnant woman from Russia who worked in the lab, so I stayed away. The rash became more painful and severe over the next day and with it came significant flu like symptoms. I was exhausted and in pain. My parents read online that this type of nerve pain can last months at a time, sometimes longer. I knew there were medications made especially for this reason. I hoped that wouldn’t be me. I breathed in deep and covered my rash, despite the pain. I didn’t want others to see. I couldn’t let other see. The ugly side. The real side. That was something even I didn’t want to see.

As I walked back to my room, feeling defeated and quite sick I pondered my faith, not really knowing what I believed anymore. My prior allegiance to faith had been somewhat dulled by my lack of really hearing anything from God. I knew I should probably push through. I knew it wasn’t supposed to be based on feelings. But the prior placates from those of faith echoed in my head, stating “everything happens for a reason” and that “you will have a great testimony because of this”. Those well-meaning voices really just made me want to run fast in the opposite direction. Faith is one thing. But why do we as Christians feel like we have to have all the answers? More, why do we have to have someone else’s right answers? And all the ‘right things to say’? Oftentimes those ‘right things to say’ can do more damage than good. When things get hard, the cute slogans go out the window.

And that’s when real discovery begins.

If you let it.

Real discovery about real faith.

I just wasn’t ready for any of that.

Little did I know what lie on the road ahead…