My name is Zuzana, I am 47 years old and for a long time I was one of the women who can handle everything. Work, household, child, family. Even herself. At least on the outside.
However, a silent battle had been going on inside for several years, which I only talked about with the doctors. And sometimes not even with them completely openly.
It started inconspicuously. Fatigue that could not be overcome. Joint pains that came without warning. A strange pressure on the chest, indigestion, sudden weight loss. My body gave me signals that something was happening, but I ignored them for a long time. I thought it was age. Stress. By life.
And then came the diagnosis: an autoimmune disease. Specifically, when the immune system turns against its own body. It is not a disease to die from overnight. But it is a disease that slowly drains a person, taking away their strength, stability, and sometimes dignity. A disease that you have to live with for the rest of your life.
Medicines cannot cure her. Just keep in check. Prevent deterioration. Prevent irreversible organ damage.
That’s why I started going to doctors more often. Controls, sampling, specialized examinations. A must for me. Strange for the neighborhood.
My mother-in-law noticed this quickly.
“Are you at the doctor again?” she asked each time with a slight smile.
“Zuzana, they’re just scaring you. Everyone else has that these days,” she waved her hand.
She was convinced that everything could be handled naturally. She treated herself for pressure, pain and insomnia with herbs, drops, and fasting. She viewed classical medicine with distrust. And on me… a little on top.
I didn’t tell her the truth. Not because I don’t trust her. But because I didn’t want to hear that I was exaggerating. That I’m weak. That I have myself to blame.
But she became curious. She noticed that I was thinner. That I sit down more often. That sometimes I gasp for breath.
“You’re hiding something,” she once said. “This is not normal.”
One afternoon I went shopping. My mother-in-law stayed at home with my daughter. A medical report remained on the table – full of Latin terms, numbers, abbreviations. I thought he wouldn’t tell her anything.
I was wrong.
When I came back, she was sitting in the living room with the paper in her hand. She didn’t read anymore. She just held him.
“Zuzana…sorry,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have read it.”
She told me she found my diagnosis. That she was looking for it on the internet. That she read about the course of the disease, what happens if it is not treated. About the fact that autoimmune inflammations can damage the heart, joints, and internal organs. About the fact that fatigue is not laziness. That pain is no excuse.
I sat across from her and for the first time I didn’t need to hide anything.
I told her everything. What it’s like to wake up and not know if I’m going to make it through a normal day today. What it’s like to take medication that has side effects but also keeps the disease under control. What is it like to fear the future and yet try to live normally.
She cried.
“I was laughing at you,” she said. “And I didn’t know you were fighting.”
We hugged each other. Not formally. Not politely. Truly.
And I told her one more thing:
“Herbs can help. But sometimes they just aren’t enough.”
Something broke between us that day.
Not only did she understand me. She began to respect medicine, which she had previously rejected. She began to ask. Listen. And most importantly – she stopped laughing.
And I understood that silence sometimes hurts more than the truth.
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