Well, after dreading it and hoping and praying it wouldn’t happen again, I’ve just had another bad flare.
On my way to class last week, I overheard someone say she had Strep throat.
No. I can’t flare again, I thought to myself. It’s not going to happen. I’m still on antibiotics. I’ve had two IVIGs. I should have plenty of good antibodies if I’m exposed. I’ll be fine…
But then, when I got to class and saw one of my lab mates who hadn’t been around in a few days, I asked where he’d been—and immediately wished I hadn’t:
“Oh, I had strep throat. It was a really bad one!”
There was no way I hadn’t been exposed. My school seems to have a problem with Strep outbreaks, and even though I’m on antibiotics, I can still flare. My doctor explained to me that it’s like being “allergic” to Strep—just being around it, even if I don’t get a full-blown infection—could send my immune system into a tailspin.
I tried to convince myself that maybe this time would be different, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t right that it had taken me five hours to write a one-page paper the night before. I knew I suddenly had no concentration again. I knew I’d been ticking a little bit more. It all made perfect sense now.
Just as I was beginning to hope this was the extent of the flare, I finally fell off the cliff. The world began to slip away—it was that feeling of being stuck in a fog that separated me from everything else. I heard someone make a “bad” noise, and I became so anxious that I had to run into the gym to do a 9 mph sprint on the treadmill (in spite of the pain from my knee injury). The next day, I just started crying uncontrollably for no apparent reason. The depression came back.
“You know what this all means, don’t you?” I sobbed to my mom when I could finally call her.
“That you’re likely to need plasmapheresis. Yes, I know… Have you taken more Prednisone yet?”
“No! I’m sick of %$&^%$ Prednisone! I’m done with this ^%$&^% disease!”
I could hear my mom on the other end beginning to cry, too. Most days, my family and I can all hold it together and think about everything I’ve accomplished in spite of this illness. We can pretend that I’m mostly fine most of the time, but it’s moments like these that tear our hearts apart—moments when we are confronted with the worst of it and the realization of how helpless we are to fix it.
On top of not feeling like myself at all, I now had the added burden of worrying that my IVIG hadn’t worked. I knew I’d have to come home for the summer after all. I knew my neurologist might be suggesting plasmapheresis or Rituximab or another IVIG at my upcoming follow-up. I knew I couldn’t continue my Prednisone taper for the rest of the semester. I knew I really wasn’t okay yet, and I was devastated.
I ended up complying with my parents’ wishes and doing a 5-day burst of higher-dose Prednisone. As much as I hate the stuff, I hate the way I feel when I flare even more. I’m doing a lot better, but I’m still having tics and having trouble finding words and speaking in coherent sentences. But I’m more okay than I was.
I don’t know what my future holds anymore. Maybe I won’t have a flare this bad again—or maybe I really have stopped getting better. Maybe this IVIG will start to work soon—or maybe I’ll get off Prednisone this summer and discover that I’m still bordering on insanity without it. I don’t know. Only time will tell…