A story of Lupus. Cunning. Insidious. Unpredictable. Cruel. 5,000 people a year die from it. Three million people have it, mostly women. There is no cure.
She has suffered many losses in great sadness and deep sorrow. She grieves, mourns, longs for the once healthy temple her body was, but has found acceptance, and she cherishes whatever health she is afforded day to day. She struggles with words and sentences as her brain malfunctions from cognitive impairment and penetrating migraine pain.

She has raged in violent anger as her body’s soldiers (B & T cells), who are supposed to be protecting her, instead march around and attack healthy tissue and organs! Her body is at constant war with itself. Armies of soldiers attack allied turf, only to be tamed with toxic medication dousing.

She has reached the line where life and death crossed paths, met, butted heads. Life has won, as she has become a living angel. Skipping through life with the wings of hope despite the rampant internal attack that resides within her immune system on a daily basis.
 
Her body breaks out in hot, violent, angry, punishing rashes. Raised scaly lesions erode and reside all over her skin as her body makes anti-bodies against itself, indicative of the immune system’s war within.

The Butterfly is a symbol of Lupus because the rash on the face looks like butterfly wings. Paradoxically, there is no freedom with Lupus, which means wolf in Latin – the rash also resembles a wolf bite. Arresting the disease process only with toxic, deadly medications. She has smelled the depths and tears of death, coming to terms with the eventual inevitable.