Jiwa Farrell had just parked her car outside a discount store in Broward County when a police officer approached and demanded her proof of registration.

Farrell knew the reason behind the officer's request: Her car occupied a parking space designated for disabled people. Despite the required blue symbol visible inside the windshield, the officer responded to a seemingly healthy young woman getting out of the vehicle.

The officer apparently didn't imagine that a woman in her 20s might harbor Farrell's panoply of medical ills: an impaired brain, damaged lungs and intestines, and a susceptibility to mini-strokes, piercing headaches and profound fatigue, not to mention an extreme sensitivity to sun exposure, something the officer forced her to endure as he verified her registration.

Farrell, 29, has learned to expect suspicious and even hostile looks when she parks in disabled spaces. Those frequent experiences remind her of the invisibility of lupus, the illness that has upended her life in many ways.

"People need to not be so judgmental when they see (an outwardly) healthy young person getting out of a car, because you never know what's inside," said Farrell, a Lakeland resident who grew up in South Florida. "You're looking at me, and you can't tell I have an 80-year-old's brain or I'm missing my insides."

Farrell, a cherubic woman with curly black hair, has been plagued with medical problems since early childhood. She had an unexplained grand mal seizure at 7, and milder seizures followed. She also endured aches, weakness and the characteristic facial redness that yielded a childhood nickname, "Little Apple Cheeks." The symptoms flummoxed her doctors, and more than one branded Farrell a hypochondriac and referred her to a psychiatrist.

"I didn't feel right, and it was to the point I was wondering as a little kid, 'Does everybody feel this way, or if not why am I being such a baby? Why can't I just suck it up and get on with my life?'" Farrell said.

Finally, when she was 16, a pediatric hematologist/oncologist told Farrell she had lupus, an autoimmune disorder typified by pain, heat, redness, swelling and organ deterioration. There is no definitive laboratory test for lupus, and diagnosis is based on symptoms and a medical history. The Lupus Foundation of America estimates 1.5 million Americans have a form of lupus, at least 90 percent of them women.

Various medications helped regulate Farrell's symptoms for a few years, but the ailment worsened in 2001. She experienced severe headaches, blindness in one eye and numbness in her hands. Lupus can affect any organ, and tests revealed degradation to the lining of her lungs and damage to her ovaries. A doctor told Farrell she had a degree of brain scarring usually seen in elderly patients.

HOPES DASHED

The physical and financial hardships of lupus kept Farrell from attending college, but she remained hopeful about another lifelong goal, becoming a mother, after marrying James Farrell in 2000. Two years later, doctors told the couple that Jiwa's tendency toward blood clots made pregnancy a life-threatening risk for her and warned against it. The Farrells stopped trying to conceive, but soon learned Jiwa was pregnant.

Farrell found out at her 20-week exam that the fetus had died. The later discovery of an ovarian mass prompted her to undergo a hysterectomy. Farrell, who displays a sonogram image of her lost baby at home, dissolves into tears when discussing her inability to have children.

MICHAEL WILSON/LEDGER PHOTOS Farrell wears a medical alert bracelet to notify others that she has lupus, a susceptibility to mini-strokes and takes Coumadin.

"It's a huge thing for me," she said. "For me, that was - you know how there's always that one thing you knew you always wanted? For me, it was family. I'm still having a hard time realizing I don't have all my female working parts. That bothers me."

Farrell, who moved to Lakeland two years ago, takes several daily medications, including Plaquenil, an anti-malaria drug sometimes prescribed for lupus, and Coumadin, a blood thinner to prevent strokes, but she refuses doctors' suggestions of prednisone, a powerful steroid with nasty side effects. She once managed a store in South Florida but now limits herself to 20 hours a week at a Lakeland video store.

"Working is hard," she said. "It's hard to set the clock and get up at a set time and not when my body says to get up. After a few hours, I just feel myself crash. �?You have to learn to listen to your body. You learn how much you can take and when you have to step back and say no."

Despite her diagnosis nearly 15 years ago, Farrell said she still battles dubious doctors unwilling to recognize an ailment that doesn't show up on a blood test. She said she sometimes wishes her appearance matched her internal condition "because then people would take you seriously."

Farrell's mother, Sharon Hendon of Polk City, and her step-sister, Felicia Lovo, also have been diagnosed with lupus. Farrell dotes on her Boston terrier mix, Kiku - "our baby" - and she and James have talked about adopting a child. She presents a convivial demeanor but admits to moments of despair.

"It (lupus) takes away from who you are, and you have to come up with a new identity for yourself because with what I've been through I'm nowhere near what I thought I would be at this point in my life," she said. "I was going to be with NASA, I was going to be an engineer, but school was too rigorous. �?I wasn't a religious person when I was younger, but the older I get I need it."

In addition to her family and growing faith, Farrell finds purpose as a representative of the Lupus Foundation of America. She recently made a trip to Washington, D.C., where she and other patients and advocates met with Congressional staffers to push for increased funding for lupus research. Farrell is also working to create a Polk County chapter of the national organization.

"It's almost cathartic, working with the Lupus Foundation and doing what I'm doing," she said. "It's giving it a voice, giving it a reason. I almost feel a responsibility as someone with lupus who's able to get out of bed to speak for the patients who are bed-ridden."

Gary White can be reached at [email protected] or at 863-802-7518