My son called me this morning to tell me he is symptomatic.

Even though I’ve been dealing with this autoimmune disorder he has had since he was seven – twenty seven years ago – I still get that knot in the pit of my stomach. My head spins. I’m nauseous.

Then I get practical.

We talk about how he is going to handle this episode. We review what symptoms he’s had, and whether he should go to work.

When my son was seven, he came home with bruises down his forearm. I asked him if he has been kicked by a horse. He didn’t know what he had done.

For years he was in and out of the hospital, he had his spleen removed, he had countless IV infusions.

I managed his care until he was 18. Then he took over.

Except he doesn’t have insurance now. He doesn’t go to the doctor, unless he reaches symptoms we know are more ominous.

I hate this. I’ve hated it since day one.

For the most part, he does well, and things are manageable.

Any time he gets a cold or virus, his body will attack his platelets, and it’s off to the races again.

Many years ago I realized that if my son is destined to live to be 100, he will…regardless of his autoimmune disorder.

It doesn’t make it any easier for Mama on days like today.

I just want my son healthy.