“I can think of worse things,” he says, but he pulls back to make room for me. When I look up to grin at him, I find him focused intently at my face. “Did you get a sunburn?” he asks.
I touch my face reflexively, knowing what he’s seeing as soon as my hand raises to my cheek. “No,” I say, hesitating.
“Your cheeks are really red,” he says, still looking there before scanning other parts of my body.
“It’s just a flare-up.” A frustrated sigh escapes before I can stop it.
“Flare-up?” We’re sitting side-by-side now; he’s leaning back to get a better look at me.
“I have lupus,” I say.
33
Flare-up
“Lupus?”
I nod and get up, about to go in search of my pants, but he grabs my arm. “Wait, you can’t just tell me that and walk off. Lupus … what does that mean for you? I’ve heard of it, but I don’t think I know what it is.”
The concern on his face tugs at something in my chest. I’ve been living with lupus for a long time now; though it’s not as scary anymore, back when I got the diagnosis, I had briefly wished that Jay — or some better version of him — was with me. My family was supportive from afar, but it wasn’t the same as having someone by my side.
“It’s an autoimmune disease,” I say, “meaning my body attacks itself.”
“And it affects your skin?” he asks, his eyes squinting as they search my face.
“A rash on my cheeks is usually the first sign that it’s flaring up, but it’s not really about my skin. There’s joint pain and other things I have to watch out for.”
“Is there a cure? Or medicine you can take?”
“There’s no cure,” I say, “but there is medicine I take when it flares up.”
“How long have you had this?”
“About ten years.”
“Christine.” He pulls me into his chest again, wrapping me in a firm embrace, and I let myself lean on him, while trying not to think about how good it would feel to always have someone here to lean on.
I’ve been through several lupus flare-ups, and while a temporary round of meds has always gotten it under control, I do live with a fear of things getting worse. The disease can lead to some serious and chronic problems, but I’m not going to burden Jay with that information.
“It’s okay, really,” I say, separating myself from him after a few minutes.
“When did you last have a flare-up?” he asks.
“It’s been a while,” I say. “Maybe a year or so.”
Jay follows right behind me when I go into the living room. “Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“Sometimes there’s just a mild rash that clears up on its own. I probably spent too much time in the sun.” I separate my pants and underwear, which were in a tangled pile on the kitchen floor.
“Why didn’t you say something? We could have stayed in today.”
I turn and put a hand on his cheek, touched by his concern, but also tired of talking about it. “Jay, relax.” He lets out a frustrated breath, but doesn’t say anything else. “Do you mind if I get a quick shower?”
“No problem. I’ll just play with Roscoe while you’re in there.”
I laugh out loud at his assumption about my dog’s activity level. Roscoe will be asleep by now and unlikely to rouse, but to my surprise, when I get out of the shower, Roscoe’s on his back in the living room, enjoying more of Jay’s belly rubs, and his favorite toy is lying on the floor next to him.
“I caught a glimpse of your cat,” Jay says, looking up and smiling. “She was under the couch but ran into the bedroom.”