The week began with a strange heaviness, the kind that settles into the bones before the mind has time to argue back. I woke up already tired, as if sleep had only skimmed the surface of me. My sinuses were swollen again, humming with pressure, reminding me of their presence with every breath 😮💨. I stood in the bathroom, rinsing them carefully, steam rising around my face, telling myself this was routine, that I knew how to handle this. Still, somewhere deeper, I wondered if it was really the sinuses—or if the unhappy wolf inside me was pacing restlessly.
I’ve always called my illness the wolf. When it’s angry, it howls loudly, tearing through my days with flares and pain. But this time, it wasn’t raging. It was sulking. Lying low. Watching me. Ever since my Hydroxychloroquine dose was cut in half back in February, something in the balance had shifted. The medication had been my quiet ally for years, keeping the wolf calm, helping my energy stay steady. Now, with the lower dose, my body felt unfamiliar, like a house where the furniture had been moved overnight.
The dose reduction wasn’t a choice I made lightly. My eyes had started to misbehave—blurring, aching, sending small warnings I couldn’t ignore. Until the tests were done, my doctors agreed it was safer to stay on less medication 👁️. “Better safe than sorry,” they said, and I agreed. Eyes are everything. Still, knowing the reason didn’t make the fatigue any easier to carry. Each day felt like wading through thick water, slow and resistant, but not impossible—just endlessly tiring.
By midweek, I caught myself talking to the wolf out loud. “I know you’re not well,” I whispered one evening, curled up on the sofa. “But please, just cooperate.” The wolf didn’t answer. It never did. Instead, it sat there silently, its presence a dull ache behind every movement. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just persistent 🐺.
Then there was the rash. It had returned quietly, first as a faint irritation on my fingers, then as unmistakable patches I recognized all too well. Over the years, it had painted itself across my face at its worst, bold and unforgiving. This time, it stayed on my hands, and I felt oddly relieved. Fingers were easier than faces. Easier to hide. Easier to heal. Both my Rheumatologist and Dermatologist had debated its identity for months. Lupus, said one. Something else, said the other. The biopsy was meant to end the argument once and for all 🔬.
Tuesday arrived wrapped in uncertainty. The consultant who knew my case had left, replaced by someone new. The phone call suggested a biopsy. The letter suggested a consultation. I walked into the hospital unsure which version of the day I was about to live. Sitting in the waiting room, I studied the rash on my hands, the way it seemed to pulse faintly, almost like it was alive. I wondered, not for the first time, how much of my body was constantly negotiating behind the scenes without my permission.
When the new Dermatologist finally called my name, she surprised me by listening more than talking. She examined my hands, my history, my medications. She asked about the fatigue. About the wolf. I laughed awkwardly when I mentioned it, but she didn’t smile politely or brush it aside. She nodded, as if she understood exactly what I meant 🧩.
“We can do the biopsy today,” she said gently. “But I want to tell you something first.”
I braced myself for bad news. Instead, she explained that the rash might not be a rival illness at all. It could be something reactive—my skin responding to a body struggling to rebalance itself after years of stability. A signal, not an enemy. The biopsy would still help, but her words lingered with me long after the procedure was done.
That night, I slept deeper than I had in weeks 🌙. The fatigue didn’t disappear, but it softened, like a clenched fist finally loosening. In the dream, I saw the wolf clearly for the first time. It wasn’t looming or threatening. It was thin, tired, lying beside me rather than opposite me. When I reached out, it didn’t pull away.
Days passed. My sinuses slowly calmed. The rash began to fade, even without steroids. Then the call came. The biopsy results were inconclusive—not because something was wrong, but because nothing new was found. No second disease. No hidden threat. Just Lupus, quietly adjusting to change.
The real surprise came later, at my eye appointment. The tests showed no lasting damage. The specialist smiled and cleared me to return to my original Hydroxychloroquine dose 💊. Relief washed over me so fast it almost hurt. Within weeks, the fog in my body began to lift. Strength returned in small, careful increments.
One evening, as I walked outside and felt the air fill my lungs without pressure or resistance, it finally hit me. The wolf wasn’t sulking. It wasn’t punishing me. It had been asking for attention in the only way it knew how. The fatigue, the rash, the quiet unease—they weren’t betrayals. They were messages.
I stopped fighting the wolf after that. Instead, I walked beside it. And for the first time in a long while, it walked with me, not against me 🌱✨
