Eryn Murphy
I always took pride in being a good friend. Having friends from all stages of life took a lot of time, but it was easy to text first, come over for impromptu hangouts, and plan concert trips when I was just a single girl living with a dog and a cat. I considered myself lucky that I had such a cultivated social circle, even though I was chronically ill. That is, until I developed a new chronic illness that seemed to make it impossible to show up for people.
When I was 20 years old, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It was awful and scary to navigate, but my friends at the time rallied around me. I was lucky to have them, but I was also lucky that my Crohn’s Disease responded to medication. I may not have been able to drink alcohol or eat certain foods, but once the new medication started working, I still had the energy to be there for the people I loved.
One day in my senior year of college, I sat in a support group for students with chronic illnesses. I was the only one who had regular stories about supportive friends. When the other attendees asked how I did this, I thought that I had beaten the curse of loneliness that chronic illness so often brings.
My confidence about mastering chronic illness was shattered a month before turning 29 years old in 2024. After taking antibiotics for an infection, I started experiencing atypical anaphylaxis every day to anything I ingested. It didn’t matter if it was antibiotics, steroids, antihistamines, or food; I reacted to everything.
ER doctors thought it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotics. Then, a reaction to steroids. Then anxiety. By the seventh ER visit, they thought it was a heart condition. A cardiologist thought the episodes were allergic reactions. Multiple allergists thought it was an overactive immune system, a heart condition, anxiety, or a combination of the three. My primary care doctor dismissed it as anxiety.
As the months went on, I lost almost 30 pounds as I couldn’t eat more than a few bites of food without nearly passing out, my body going numb, my blood pressure and heart rate dropping to dangerous levels, or needing an EpiPen. For nearly six months, I missed every single friend group hangout, and only a handful of people ever offered to just come and sit with me at my apartment.
When I finally got a diagnosis and medication that helped me regain some energy, friends started coming back around. The diagnoses were complex, but could be researched. My reactions were due to mast cells, which signal your body to go into anaphylaxis, malfunctioning, and dysautonomia. My autonomic nervous system, which oversees the nerves that control my breathing and heart rate, is the most affected by the mast cell reactions.
I should have been grateful to have my friends back, but I felt a sense of resentment. Friends had not shown up the way I expected when I could not come to them. I thought of them as ableist, flaky, and neglectful members of my community who had failed me. Logically, I knew that adulthood makes all the days blur together, even when you are not burdened with something, but all I could think of was how easily I seemed to lift out of everyone’s life.
Just as I could eat full meals of a few foods, I started reacting to pet dander, fragrances, chemicals, heat, and exercise. I finally had energy and could eat more, but the only way to not experience debilitating reactions was to isolate myself from environmental triggers. This time around, my friends found ways to show up for me.
Leading up to a planned dinner party, the host had her dog stay somewhere else for the weekend, another friend brought an air purifier so I didn’t have to bring mine, and another sent out an email saying if anyone wanted to attend, they could not wear any fragrances. Without asking, I had the accommodations I needed to be included, and I was able to attend without needing to wear a mask or leave early.
As I caught up with people, I realized how out of the loop I had been. Friends who I had once been inseparable with felt like casual acquaintances who were going out of their way to cater to me for nothing in return. I no longer felt resentment, but shame. For the first time in my life, I felt like a bad friend.
While I had been trying to stay alive, life had continued for everyone. I had missed birthday parties and had no idea about my friends’ jobs, families, love lives, or pets. How could I expect them to be there for me when I had not been there for them? I may have gone through months of terrible trauma, but if someone had not reached out to me first, I did not ask them for help, and I did not ask how they were.
In college, as I sat in the support group, I had bragged that I always explained to friends exactly what I needed from them and that I never blamed them for not understanding what it is like to live with a chronic illness. Once my mast cell issues started, I forgot both of those rules, and I let my support system die. It was my friends who put it back together once they knew what I needed.
People with disabilities deserve to be accommodated and to experience love, but one of the realities of chronic illness is that you sometimes can’t show up for the people you love in the same way. To be a good friend again, I had to let go of my bitterness and shame and accept my new reality. I could not be a friend the way I once was, but I could still try to make my friends feel appreciated and clearly communicate what I needed.
My chronic illness may not have made me a permanently bad friend, but it did make me a worse friend. For months, I did not have the capacity to be there for people and relied on those who had the emotional and physical energy to be there for me. It’s a special type of nightmare feeling like a burden to someone, but people who love you will give you grace. To help shoulder that sacrifice, it’s important to give people in your life grace as well.
In the same way that you cannot show up, there are some people who might not have the capacity to help you. The people who want to help can make mistakes even if they have good intentions. It does not mean they do not care, but they are not designed to be a perfect savior. They are flawed humans trying their best with the hand they have been dealt, just like you.
