Lupus - My Encounter

What it means when you're delivered an incurable disease

I met “Ava” twice during my clerkship: first in person, then virtually a week later. Yet the impact of those encounters stayed with me far longer. During the initial visit, she presented with what she believed were rashes from a recent hike, but something about the bruising lingered in the back of my mind. Before I could fully process my thoughts, the physician gently redirected the discussion, hinting that these symptoms might be part of a larger, more complex picture. Ava also reported joint pain, especially in her arms, and as the history unfolded, the conversation expanded into deeply personal areas: sexual history, family genetics, lifestyle habits.

I remember feeling uncomfortable. Not because the questions were inappropriate, but because Ava seemed overwhelmed. Medical terminology bounced off her, and each time she asked for clarification, the doctor had to pause typing on her EPIC chart to re-explain—Ava’s primary language was definitively non-English. I could feel Ava’s tension from where I sat. Her shoulders and neck remained stiff, her tone guarded. Part of me wished the doctor had paused to reassure her more explicitly. Something as simple as, “You did the right thing to come to me. You’re safe, and we’re going to figure this out.” I didn’t know if that would have changed anything, but I felt the absence of that moment. If I were in the doctor’s shoes, perhaps I would’ve added that to the conversation.

When it came time for the physical exam, Ava asked that I step out. I respected her boundary, but it was the last time I saw her face-to-face. I didn’t expect to see her name again so soon, yet the following week the doctor prepared for a virtual follow-up to discuss her diagnostic results. Before the call, I was walked through the classification criteria for lupus. The very methodical, systematic nature of it fascinated me; but fascination dissolved into dread when the doctor clicked “enter meeting” on her computer.

Ava appeared on screen, tense, unaware that I was listening in the background—she never found out. As the diagnosis was delivered, I watched her struggle to hold herself together. Her questions: “Can it be cured?”, “How long will I live?”, “Can I have children?” all hit with a weight I felt in my heart. I realized then how fragile health can be, and how easily someone’s world can change in a single conversation. I left feeling both grateful for my own health and humbled by the responsibility this profession carries.

Always remember the good things in life, and be the light for those who are seeking it.