Sweaty Palms and Air Conditioning

Two days later I sat on the cool exam room table of Dr. Arnold’s office. I looked down at my legs, in jean shorts now covered in goose bumps. I wished I had brought a sweater. I couldn’t wait to get back outside to the muggy humid air I had moments earlier ran from. I couldn’t wait to be any place but here. Seconds later Dr. Arnold entered with a warm smile. She sat down on the small stool next to the exam table and crossed her legs under her long conservative blue dress. She began to tell me she felt the lupus “may not be calming down as we had hoped”. I was confused by this. I was taking all of my medications, as much as I despised them. I had nearly given up on my appearance as a result. How could they ‘not be working’? And what did that all mean? She went on to say that she had noted some red blood cells in my urine and was concerned about my kidneys. My kidneys? I had never seen any abnormalities in my urine. No blood. Nothing. I had no pain on my sides to suggest kidney pain. I was sure she was wrong. I thought I had lupus, not kidney disease. I already got my ‘diagnosis’. There wasn’t supposed to be more. That was not allowed! I hated that there was more. She went on to say that she wanted me to see a nephrologist. She went further to say I may need to have a kidney biopsy.

At that moment the room never felt colder and at the same time I became increasingly aware of my now sweaty underarms. I took my cold clammy hands and forcefully stuffed them into my jean shorts, walking into the waiting room feeling defeated. I glanced at the now frayed brow of my mom and knew she too was concerned. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to.

My mom had always taken the reverential approach with her doctors. She was the type of patient that doctors dreamed of having, never stepping out of bounds, never questioning judgments. She was respectful and nervous around them. She sometimes even forgot what questions she came to ask. She profusely thanked them at the end of each visit, no matter how little or much was accomplished. I knew she saw their advice as coming from an almost divine source. That was a bit too extreme for me. I figured maybe it was a generational thing. I figured maybe I had just seen too many doctors. I knew she became angered at the near mention of me stepping outside the box from what I was told. I saw this at the mention of me going to the gym. I knew I scared her. I also knew I had to find my own way, and living inside the bounds of what everyone else was going to tell me ‘I was allowed to do’ for the rest of my life because I was in some way ‘disabled’ was not an option. I felt suffocated. And to me, exercising, even at a very minimum, was my way of fighting back. My way of telling my body it hadn’t won. My way of reminding myself I was still in there.

We sat in the car driving home that day, our thoughts to ourselves, as had become our norm following these visits. I recalled the piece of good news from Dr. Arnold who had told me she was “proud of me” for my efforts to exercise and that it may in fact “help the lupus”. I had hoped my mom was listening. I knew she was. I knew she just wanted it all to be okay for her girl.