A preposterous picture of health

Oscillating flower petals. Dancing dots. A kaleidoscopic galaxy bursting in my field of vision. This was all new, and coincided with my hospitalization for a kidney biopsy.

There were concerns I might be having lupus-related mini-stroke so an MRI was ordered to look for a brain bleed. While waiting, the doctors let me out of the hospital for the weekend.

As an antidote to illness, we went house hunting.

While I needed fistfuls of drugs to beat back the inflammation gnawing on my kidneys I also needed somewhere better to live. I needed to not live above a drug dealer and his prostitute. I needed not to be disturbed by their frenetic negotiations over sex, money, drugs. I needed a safe cocoon where I could sleep through the night.

My better health seemed to depend on it.

When you have an illness that makes no sense, it becomes a fool’s pastime to look for connections and causes behind the descent to disease. At one time or another, I’ve sworn off gluten, corn, eggs, dairy, sunlight, stress, soy, red meat, all meat — and had my mercury fillings removed, to name a few fanciful attempts to feel better.

Back then, in hospital, I was extremely irritated to learn from a kidney biopsy that I had the most serious type of lupus nephritis; class IV, diffuse and proliferative. What was the cause? Rampant inflammation couldn’t have done that kind of damage overnight and must have been simmering for a while, right? Continue reading


A rotten diagnosis (Part 22)

An ‘X’ was drawn on my back to mark the spot where the biopsy needle was to be plunged. That’s when the nephrologist executed the bait and switch.

“Ok, how about you do it?”

“The biopsy? Me?”

Hovering over me — face down, backside up— the attending nephrologist discussed the procedure with the resident, who’d been at his side since I met them the previous afternoon. (It was a teaching hospital).

“Yes, you’ve watched enough of these. You’re ready.”

“It’s a straight shot?”

“More or less.”

One of them touched my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”


I lifted my head, twisted my neck to look them both in the eyes. I’d read somewhere that you’re supposed to make eye contact with specialists so they see you as a person instead of a procedure.

Continue reading


Hot and bothered (Part 21)

While I never told the editors who hired me at the Ottawa Citizen that I had a serious chronic illness, I confessed my secret to the doctor performing the employer-mandated medical exam.

I had to. Otherwise, my blood would betray me.

A routine white blood cell count (WBC) would reveal I suffered from neutropenia and leukopenia — chronically low numbers of white blood cells which left me highly susceptible to infection. Lupus often attacks and destroys these disease fighting, workhorses of the immune system. A normal WBC is between 4,500 and 11,000, mine hovers around 1,800.

If the doctor requested more sophisticated tests, she might also have seen extremely high levels of anti-double-stranded DNA antibodies, which suggests more serious lupus, such as lupus nephritis or kidney lupus.

As far as I knew, my kidneys were not involved, which was a comfort to me. Unchecked, lupus nephritis can lead to total kidney failure and be the dividing line between serious and devastating sickness. While I already knew I could handle a life marked by joint, heart and lung inflammation, I wasn’t sure what more I could endure.

That day in the office, the doctor asked how lupus impacted me on the job, and I told her the truth. I never called in sick.

Whatever she found in my blood, she told the company I was fit to work. So I began my new job full of hope. Continue reading


Out of the frying pan (Part 20)

I’d like to torque my personal narrative and claim that I left my ‘dream job’ following an epiphany: journalism is not a cure for lupus.

Except, I wasn’t that astute.

These days, there are many books written for the chronically ill about how to scale back your dreams and still find career success. Despite Lupus, written by a former NBC producer, quit her job to control the constant flares of her illness, which eventually attacked her kidneys and arguably the most serious manifestation of lupus (a stage I didn’t yet have to worry about). The writer encouraged readers to work smart, or in bite-sized chunks, and sometimes not at all. Fabulupus (yes, that’s really the title), is filled with similar advice.

When I was a young reporter, there were no “self-help” books about how to manage your workload, ask for support from your employer, or even disclose an illness. And there was also no wise counsel from medical professionals.

Instead, my rheumatologist, one of the best in Toronto, fed my personal mythology that I thrived on stress. How else to explain that all of the blood tests to measure the severity of my disease activity were sky high, but I wasn’t defeated by the chronic fatigue, arthritis or the ripping pain of pericarditis (inflammation around the lining of the heart) or pleurisy (inflammation of the lining around my lungs)? Somehow stress gave me energy, or so his pep talk went.

Continue reading


The Death Knock and adventures as a junior reporter (Part 19)

It’s called a “pick up” or a “death knock,” and it’s among the most unpleasant tasks a general assignment reporter on the city desk can draw.

The most experienced of our breed can get a grieving mother to unchain her door, make a pot of tea, and unspool woeful stories of her lost love, usually urged on by an invitation to “set the record straight” about son Jimmy the Bank Robber or make sure Little Emily the Heroin Addict isn’t misremembered. The most tenacious of us leave the widow’s home with an entire photo album under our arm so there are no pictures left for media outlets late to the tea party.

This is another one of those tasks that journalism school can’t prepare you for.

So many years ago, in Deep Cove, B.C., a nine-year-old boy left home on his bicycle early one morning. When he didn’t return for lunch, his parents wandered the neighbourhood, calling his name. When the police later knocked on their door, they said the helmet-less boy had been found at the bottom of a cliff. It was assumed he’d accidentally plunged to his death.

My assignment: knock once again on the parents’ door, get a few quotes about proposed B.C. bike helmet law, and a photo of their lost boy. Continue reading


Remembering a massacre: a tough pill to swallow (Part 18)

The moment my editor told me to get to the airport, my stomach fell as though I was on the down slope of a roller coaster. I stood in the middle of the newsroom, as a few deskers and reporters stared at me expectantly, wondering if I could possibly decline. I think reporters often dread the unknown of a story and the difficulties that lie ahead in nailing it down, but I feared I just wasn’t up to the task.

I’d been feeling tired, lupus tired, for days and I was walking like an elderly woman whose joints lacked lubricant.

But in Montreal, where the killing began around 5 p.m.,  27 people were shot or stabbed. All the dead were young women; fourteen of them.

How could I not go?

Continue reading

Selena Gomez wears Halloween fangs; star just revealed she has lupus.

Selena Gomez reveals she has lupus and an obscure illness gets star treatment

The world’s teenage girls just got a crash course on lupus.

Selena Gomez has 34 million Twitter followers, 47 million Instagram followers and 58 million Facebook followers.

And she has lupus.

Suddenly, the obscure has become front-page tabloid fodder.

I feel horrible for her, but oddly happy for those of us who suffer from the fatigue-inducing, organ-destroying autoimmune disease. Continue reading