Coping with Prednisone tells the story of flutist Eugenia Zuckerman's struggle with eosinophilic pneumonia and how she worked with her sister, physician Julie R. Ingelfinger, to manage the disease. EUGENIA Now I really panic. Then I tell myself to stay calm. After all, there's good news here. Not only do I finally know what's going on, but it's treatable. Yet the panic returns as I realize I have to look presentable, on the stage and on television. I know that prednisone can make you bloated and distort your features. For fifteen years I have been the arts correspondent for CBS News's “Sunday Morning.” And there's still a double standard—male TV personalities can look plump and rumpled; women on TV are expected to look slim and sleek. “Will I blow up?” I asked. The doctor waits a beat before pronouncing a definitive, “Yes.” “It's my face! It's my body!” I blurt, “I won't take that much prednisone. I'd rather die!” Overdramatic, I know, and narcissistic as hell, but, hey, I'm fifty and it's bad enough feeling vulnerable physically but professionally too? The doctor's face registers bemused concern. “You will take the prednisone,” he says, “or you could die.” That shuts me up. Death or distortion? No contest. I mumble a contrite, “OK,” then ask, just in case, “But isn't there some other drug I can take?” “I'm afraid not.” I nod and swallow hard. I will blow up. I'm going to look awful. I will have to wear a paper bag over my head for six months or more. I will take a leave of absence from life. Become a recluse. Hide in my room. Or, I realize with a flash of hope, I can call my big sister. JULIE My sister Genie, Eugenia to her friends in adulthood but Genie to me, once acted surprised when I ran to help someone having convulsions on the T (the Metropolitan Transit Authority Boston subway system of Charlie “oh, he never returned” fame) while we were going somewhere with our young children. “What are you doing?” she screeched at me. “I'm a doctor!” I yelled back. Later she said, “You know, I completely forgot that you're a doctor.” But years have gone by and mostly she doesn't forget this. Like many doctors, I sometimes would rather be a regular family member, not a doctor who is also a sister, daughter, mother, et cetera. It works in funny ways. So, when my sister Genie called upset about a scary and serious pulmonary illness and its recommended treatment—high-dose glucocorticoids—I felt like her sister, not like a doctor. I was upset, too. It was ironic, my flutist sister having a lung problem! How unfair, how potentially devastating! Then, as physicians often do when they or family members have a medical problem, I “whitecoated.” I quickly remembered I was the doctor/sister, and my upset merged into wanting to solve everything—to be sure that Genie's diagnosis was correct and that the treatment recommended was “the best.” I thought, I am no expert in pulmonary problems, but as a kidney specialist I do very often prescribe steroids—cortisone, prednisone, predisolone, et cetera—as these agents have multiple roles in treating kidney diseases, so I can help.