Ok, enough with the faffing.  My level of indecision has reached such ridiculous heights it’s threatening to bring on my vertigo.  I’ve finally decided to grow a pair, take the damn pills and sit back and see.  Just how bad can it be?

A couple of things helped me make up my mind.  First up was the feeling that I was being selfish.  If Azathioprine offered a shot at living a more ‘normal’ life,  then I certainly owed it to my children to give it a go.  This could be my chance to stay awake for what’s left of their childhood before every one of their memories involves a sleeping mound under the blanket.  It’s time to think and act in the present.  Any worrying health problems that may lurk in my future (or my overactive imagination) will just have to be dealt with further down the line.

Secondly,  I asked the advice of those ‘in the know’.  No, not doctors, those with more of a clue.  Medical professionals may be trained and have letters after their names, but in all seriousness, who’s in a better position to tell you how it is:  someone who dishes out the toxic tablets but doesn’t ingest them or the poor sods who already take them.

With this in mind, I sent out a plea for advice on a Facebook Lupus page.  Straightaway I was inundated with positive replies, encouragement, and reassuring advice.  There was just the one negative response, citing liver damage, so I quickly skimmed over that before my paranoia had a chance to take hold.

‘Take it, do it’  was one person’s advice. So this morning I did.

I felt a little bit like Neo inThe Matrix.  If I take the green pill, I get to stay in Wonderland and see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.  Here goes nothing.

I’m not quite sure what I was expecting to happen after I swallowed it.  A drum roll perhaps? Or maybe for my skin to turn green and scaly and a forked tail to suddenly grow?  After months of worry and stress, it all felt like something of an anticlimax.

Perhaps the biggest let down was finding out that despite disappearing down the rabbit hole, I’m still unable to move in slow motion, stop bullets mid-air or walk upside down on the ceiling.  I reckon Morpheus was dealing much stronger stuff than my rheumatologist can lay his hands on… Fast forward to Day 3.