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Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

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65 and 20

Evelyn Herwitz · April 23, 2019 · 2 Comments

On Thursday I turned 65. And today marks the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. Two milestones linked by memory and blooms.

Last week, in a burst of warmth and wet, all the trees unfurled their chartreuse buds, crabapples and weeping cherries blushed, forsythias gleamed. This is often nature’s gift near my birthday, the sudden, welcome spray of pastels. Winter’s subtle grays are forgotten, and the earth smells sweet.

I spent much of my birthday cooking, with Al as sous chef, for our Passover seder Friday night. The prospect had felt daunting, and less than welcome as a way to mark my 65th, but it turned out to be a lot of fun. I was simply in a good mood. We enjoyed each other’s company, preparing each course at a relaxed pace. Midday, we broke for lunch out, and Al—always the master of surprise—wrapped up our meal with a trip to a wonderful jewelry store, with an invitation to pick out whatever I wanted. Later, when all the cooking was done and the kitchen cleaned, we went out again for a birthday dinner. Throughout the day, I received calls from family and best wishes from friends. I felt thoroughly celebrated and well prepared for the holiday, renewed.

On my 45th birthday, days before my mother’s death in 1999, we spoke on the phone. She was in good spirits because my sister and her family were visiting. A rare and aggressive form of thyroid cancer had appeared suddenly in December, when she brushed a hair from her neck and first noticed a lump. The disease took her life in four months. I had visited numerous times during that winter and early spring and was with her when she passed. In those last moments, as she sipped her final breaths, I had the distinct feeling that she was simply slipping out of her body to somewhere unknown.

In many ways, there was much I did not know about her and have only learned since her death. For a woman of her generation and German heritage, motherhood was a mix of compassion and authority. We had many long talks during my childhood and adolescence, and I learned to be a good listener from her example. But she always maintained privacy about her innermost thoughts and feelings, and revealed little of her own formative years, beyond certain familiar stories of life in Berlin during the rise of the Nazis and her transition to embracing her American citizenship. With twenty years’ perspective, I now understand that the past was simply a place she wanted to leave behind.

Since Al and I traveled to Prague and Berlin as part of our summer vacation, to honor the memory of my great grandparents who were murdered in the Holocaust, I have been thinking of her more, wondering what she really felt during that time, wishing I could ask her. Miraculously, last fall, out of the blue, I heard from a cousin I have never met, whose nonagenarian mother is still alive and able. At the end of May, I am going to visit them in Florida. And so, I may get some answers from the woman who is my mother’s first cousin and the last living link to her generation. This is a great, unexpected blessing.

When we laid my mother to rest, a white cherry sapling had recently been planted in that section of the cemetery, in ground softened by spring’s thaw. It was too young to blossom, then, but casts ample shade near her and my father’s grave today. Its size always surprises me when I visit, a marker of how much time has passed. I like to think, even as she tried to bury her past, that my mother would be pleased that I am reclaiming it, not only for myself through my travels and studying German, but also for my daughters who barely knew her as children.

How much do we ever know our parents, let alone ourselves? I will give the last word to Rainer Maria Rilke, from Requiem for a Friend (The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, trans Stephen Mitchell):

I have my dead, and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful,
so unlike their reputations. Only you
return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something; so that the sound
reveals your presence. . . .

Ich habe Tote, und ich ließ sie hin
und war erstaunt, sie so getrost zu sehn,
so rasch zuhaus im Totsein, so gerecht,
so anders als ihr Ruf. Nur du, du kehrst
zurück; du streifst mich, du gehst um, du willst
an etwas stoßen, daß es klingt von dir
und dich verrät. . . .

 

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Paul Herwitz

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Filed Under: Body, Hearing, Mind, Sight, Smell, Taste, Touch

Another Extraction

Evelyn Herwitz · April 16, 2019 · 2 Comments

So, I was hoping that my resorbing molar would hang in there at least until the summer. Not to be. After a brief hiatus a few weeks ago, the tooth began acting up, with no signs of abating. Last Monday, I realized I needed to take action, because the coming weeks are busy with Passover and travel plans, not to mention my birthday later this week, which I was not about to ruin with a toothache.

Fortunately, my periodontist was able to fit me in last Wednesday. I tried not to think about it too much in advance, and there wasn’t much time to angst, anyway. A good thing, because it is such an unpleasant experience. My periodontist is very skilled and has incredible patience, both essential to extracting a big molar from the back of my jaw when I can’t fully open my mouth due to skin that remains somewhat tight. But it’s a struggle—for both of us.

The main problem, other than simply getting all the tools in my mouth and the constant tugging at my less-than-flexible lips, was that the ligament surrounding my molar had been destroyed, thanks to scleroderma. This is the membrane that enables the tooth to wiggle when loose and be easily pulled out. Instead, as had been the case the last time I had this procedure done, the roots of my very big molar had fused to my jawbone. So he had to drill them out. Not fun. I tried to calm myself by listening to the soothing classical music in the background and focusing on my breath, which definitely helped.

Because he had to drill so deeply, it took a lot of novocaine to numb my nerves. He finally used a combination of novocaine and epinephrine, which has the advantage of intensifying the local anesthetic, but the very big downside of causing my heart to race and giving me the shakes for a while after the shot. I absolutely hate the stuff, but had not realized I hadn’t told them in advance. So that detail will go into my chart for next time.

The whole process of extricating the molar, taking an X-ray to see if he’d gotten the whole root, drilling some more, then inserting the bone graft and stitching me up again, took about two (very long) hours. Knowing it would be hours more before the novocaine wore off (my body processes anesthesia very slowly), I drove 45 minutes back to my home pharmacy, picked up medication (and was pleased that my new Medicare Part D pharmacy card works), got home, finished up loose ends of work, and then lay down with an icepack on my jaw. (Icepacks are tricky, because they can set off my Raynaud’s, but better to put up with that than have a really swollen face.)

Five days later, my jaw continues to heal. Swelling is receding. One of the stitches already fell out on its own, as expected. It’s not comfortable, but significantly improved from the nerve pain that was only going to get worse if I waited any longer. I charged the expense to one of our travel credit cards, so at least we’ll get some points from the ordeal.

I’m glad it’s over, and that it will be mid-summer, at least, before the next step of drilling and inserting the implant that forms the base for the crown. I’m also glad that the gap in my teeth is not visible, so I don’t have to look like Alfred E. Newman for the next nine months. I’m very grateful that we have the resources to deal with this, and I really, really hope that it will be years more before I have to go through it again.

And, so, another tooth bites the dust.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Daniel Frank

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Filed Under: Body, Mind, Taste, Touch Tagged With: body-mind balance, dental implants, mindfulness, Raynaud's

Mud Season

Evelyn Herwitz · April 9, 2019 · Leave a Comment

It’s getting warmer and muckier here in Massachusetts—but not yet so consistently warm that the bugs are swarming. So, perfect weather for a walk in the woods this past weekend, albeit stepping carefully around muddy tracks and vernal pools. Life’s cycle of renewal always boosts my spirits in the spring. I hope it does for you, too. Enjoy.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

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Filed Under: Body, Hearing, Mind, Sight, Smell, Touch Tagged With: body-mind balance, mindfulness, resilience

Perchance to Dream

Evelyn Herwitz · April 2, 2019 · Leave a Comment

I’ve been having some trouble falling asleep, lately. I go through these bouts from time to time, when I’m trying to do too much and my mind is overstimulated, or when I’ve sat up at my computer too late, or when I watch too much news. Some of the solutions are obvious (plan in evening down time! no computer after 9 o’clock! don’t OD on the latest political crisis!). But I’ve also decided to use regular guided meditation in the morning to help me calm my thoughts.

I subscribe to Headspace, which is a great app with many guided meditation series to help with various issues. When I was dealing with my horrific ulcers the summer before last and the surgical aftermath, the series on pain management was a real boon. This time, I’m meditating my way through the sleep series, which includes both practical advice for good “sleep hygiene” as well as a mind-calming meditation to be done in the morning that helps you sleep better at night.

I was skeptical of how this would work, but lo and behold, after about ten morning sessions, I started to fall asleep more readily. I am less intimidated by the prospect of needing to fall asleep, which is the insomniac’s hamster wheel, and more able to relax. (Of course, now that I’m writing this down, who knows what will happen tonight?)

In any case, the meditation has an added benefit. Monday morning it was cold here, a drop from the mid-60s on Sunday to a wind-chilling mid-30s (welcome to New England). When I started my meditation, however, I didn’t have on any socks, because I’m ready for spring and didn’t feel like it. Of course, that meant my feet were ice cold. I wondered if meditating would improve my circulation. Sure enough, by the end of my ten minutes of visualizing a warm glow filling my body from bottom to top, my toes were actually a little pink. Not toasty, but not freezing, either.

Years ago, I had read how meditation could help Raynaud’s. I once even tried some biofeedback practice to see if it would make a difference, but didn’t have the patience to follow through consistently. Here was yet another reminder that the mind truly does influence the body. And ten minutes of calm in the morning certainly beats that nagging voice in my head urging me to start thinking-planning-doing.

I don’t expect my sleep issues to disappear, but at least it feels more manageable at present. And my toes are happier, too.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Cris Saur

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Filed Under: Body, Mind, Sight, Touch Tagged With: body-mind balance, managing chronic disease, mindfulness, Raynaud's, resilience, sleep

Countdown

Evelyn Herwitz · March 26, 2019 · 3 Comments

As of next Monday, I will be officially on Medicare. Getting there has been long anticipated. But the process has not been easy, as anyone who has gone through it can attest. The plans are complicated, the rules byzantine, the language seemingly designed to confuse (though more likely just written in so many layers that getting to the basic facts is like going on an archeological dig).

To figure this out, Al and I went twice to see a SHINE counselor here in Massachusetts (Serving the Health Information Needs of Everyone—who thinks up these acronyms?) to sort through all the options. I knew from the get-go to avoid Medicare Advantage plans, since these can significantly restrict physician choice through narrow networks. Living with a chronic disease like scleroderma, that was a non-starter for me. We knew we wanted to get a Medicare supplemental plan to cover what Medicare Parts A and B do not. And I needed to be certain that all my expert specialists would be included in the plan.

Fortunately, the best plan we were interested in, offered by Massachusetts Blue Cross/Blue Shield, does cover all of my wonderful physicians. I made sure to check with them as well as with the BC/BS customer service rep. The premium costs about $200 per month, but the plan has no deductible, no copays, and excellent in-patient and skilled nursing coverage. Any provider or hospital that accepts Medicare is covered. Given how much I spent on copays, alone, with employer health insurance coverage, that will be a savings. So that is one load off my mind (at least, unless the plan changes at some point).

The bigger issue has been wading through Part D coverage options for my meds. Learning what’s involved with these plans has been a huge shock. I certainly had read about issues for drug costs for seniors and knew something, in general, about the “donut hole” problem (which I won’t even try to explain here). But I was stunned when I realized how much I would be paying for some of my medications: one Tier 5, and four Tier 4s (or two Tier 4s and two Tier 3s, depending on the plan).

Even with the excellent help of staff at the Massachusetts College of Pharmacy and Health Sciences (MCPHS), which offers a free service to state residents to sort through all the Part D plans, I learned that we would be paying about $10,000 annually. And that includes falling into the catastrophic coverage category. This prompted me to bring up the issue to both my Boston Medical rheumatologist and cardiologist. So we are now reevaluating my meds and alternatives. We’ve come up with a new plan that will cost about $,4,500 annually—certainly an improvement, but still three times our out-of-pocket expenses under our prior insurance.

One could argue that this is appropriate. Shouldn’t we all be making cost-conscious consumer decisions for our health care? Problem is, the cost of my Tier 5 medication is exorbitant. It’s been covered by a patent for years, and is going off patent later this year. As a result (I learned from the Part D Medicare web interface), its negotiated monthly cost, which forms the basis of what is paid by the patient and Part D, has increased more than 100 percent in the past few years, from around $5,000 up to more than $11,000. That’s monthly. The drug isn’t costing more to make. The pharmaceutical company is milking the patent  before it expires and a generic becomes available—which could still be costly. As my cardiologist noted, if they find another, slightly modified application, the patent could still be renewed. This is common practice.

One way or another, we’ll make it work. But it is high time that the high cost of drugs in this country, especially for seniors who cannot afford them, should be regulated. All it takes is one look at a Canadian drug website to know that what we’re paying is ridiculous.

For more than a year, Al and I have been paying a hefty COBRA premium to retain our excellent health insurance, which I really need or we’d go bankrupt. We’ve been waiting and waiting until my 65th birthday to drop that expense for a much more reasonable monthly premium (Al switches over in July). But it’s still not clear to me, given the drug situation, how much we will save. And this makes me angry.

There are other countries on this planet that make comprehensive health care available for all of their citizens. Let’s get past all the scare mongering, clarify and understand the true costs, and seriously consider universal health care here in the U.S. What we have now is just a confusing, inequitable mess.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: SpaceX

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Filed Under: Body, Mind Tagged With: managing chronic disease, Medicare, resilience

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About the Writer

When not writing about living fully with chronic health challenges, Evelyn Herwitz helps her marketing clients tell great stories about their good works. She would love to win a MacArthur grant and write fiction all day. Read More…

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I am not a doctor . . .

. . . and don’t play one on TV. While I strive for accuracy based on my 40-plus years of living with scleroderma, none of what I write should be taken as medical advice for your specific condition.

Scleroderma manifests uniquely in each individual. Please seek expert medical care. You’ll find websites with links to medical professionals in Resources.

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