Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

Hearing

Gone Writin’

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For six-and-a-half years, I’ve been working on my novel set in World War I. And this year, I finally carved out five days to sequester myself near the shore and focus on what is now the eighth round of revisions. Here’s the view a short walk from my little Maine cottage.

More next week. I hope you all are pursuing your dreams, too. It’s never too late . . .

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.

The Things We Take for Granted

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I updated my computer on Monday. That is to say, I transferred data from my six-year-old iMac to my new iMac, so that I could give my old iMac to Al, because my really old iMac that he was using for several years finally up and died. It was time for an upgrade, anyway, and so I made the business investment. I’ve favored Apple computers for more than a decade, now, not only because they’re so intuitive, but also because the keyboard is very easy on my hands. Any other computer keyboard feels like I’m banging on an old manual typewriter—that is to say, painful.

Things did not go smoothly. Following Apple’s instructions, I updated the operating system on my old iMac to the latest version before trying to transfer data between the two machines. But the new iMac, to my surprise and annoyance, did not have the latest OS version. So I had to first update the new iMac.

Issues arose, so I spoke with a very patient Apple tech support guy for at least an hour, trying to get the two machines to speak to each other. At last, the data transfer began successfully. Expecting it to complete overnight, I went upstairs to bed. Shortly after I woke up Monday morning, I checked progress. My old iMac had shut down 12 minutes before the multi-hour transfer process had completed. Back to Square One.

And so, I started the process all over again, with more Apple tech support. My biggest issue, other than tossing my entire morning out the window, was that I had to run a Zoom meeting at noon, and the estimated time for the data migration to complete was about five hours.

My only other option to run the meeting was my aging MacBook Air, which has not worked properly for at least a year because its memory is clogged up (hmmm, sounds familiar). So I asked the tech gal for help with that. She ended up handing me off to one of their senior tech gals, who spent another hour with me trying to free up memory. We never could figure out the basic issue, but I was able to meet my Zoom deadline.

I have to say that Apple support guys and gals are great. Knowledgeable, patient, and really try to help you solve the problems. A good thing, because the next issue arose when I tried to print from my now up-and-running new iMac, and my printer wouldn’t respond. Searching for info about the printer, whether it needed a new printer driver, etc., etc., only confused me more. So I called Apple support once again.

This time, after checking all the obvious stuff (so I thought), the tech support gal asked me if my printer was on the same wireless network as my iMac. Lo and behold, the WIFI had disconnected when I had unplugged the printer and plugged it back in, in the process of prior finagling with all the plugs and wires involved in the data transfer. I was able reconnect the printer to the WIFI and . . . it worked!

So, other than some more annoying app housecleaning, I am now writing on my new iMac with pleasure. And here comes the obvious conclusion: We’re so dependent on our computers. They are amazing tools when they work as intended. They are utterly frustrating when they don’t. If I’d been smarter, I would have set aside an entire day to make this transition, knowing that something would inevitably go wrong.

But these are problems that come with the privilege of being able to afford a top quality desktop computer—even as it’s essential to my work as a writer. I recognize this. I’m very grateful that I can do this. And I hope I won’t need to do it again for at least another six years.

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: Wilhelm Gunkel

And Then the Clouds Lifted

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Sunday was my 67th birthday—or, as my eldest put it, the 33rd anniversary of my 34th. Sixty-seven doesn’t seem old anymore. While my body certainly doesn’t work as well as it once did, pre-scleroderma, and my memory is no longer as sharp, I don’t feel old. Wiser, I hope. Seasoned, certainly.

To celebrate that milestone, and the fact that both Al and I are now fully immunized against Covid (at least the original version), we spent the weekend in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Decades ago, when we were first married, and later when our daughters were very young, we used to camp there for our summer vacation. I haven’t been back, since.

My inspiration for the trip was to see the stars from the Kancamangus Highway, which runs through the White Mountain National Forest. There are no interfering lights at night, and I can still recall the spectacular view from a visit more than 30 years ago. The weather, however, had other plans. It remained overcast throughout our trip, the sun finally breaking through on Sunday afternoon as we drove home.

But the day’s diffuse light cast its own spell, subtly revealing details otherwise missed. From Laconia’s lake shores to the Lincoln Trailhead in the White Mountain National Forest, from the Cog Rail part-way up Mount Washington to the Basin off the Franconia Notch Parkway, we immersed in rejuvenating beauty. As I reconciled myself to a birthday mountainside view shrouded in mist, the clouds suddenly lifted and we could see 80 miles. The perfect gift, and metaphor, after a long, long year.

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.

Prepping

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Today I get my second Moderna dose. On Monday, I tried to remember to keep drinking fluids, which is supposed to ease side effects. We shall see.

I’ve also been prepping for the aftermath. Friends and family who’ve had the Moderna vaccine report a whole range of reactions, from some arm pain to brain fog to extreme fatigue to headaches to fever, lasting a day or so. I’ve cleared my calendar for Wednesday, hoping for the best but leaving space and time to deal with a stronger reaction. After my first dose, I was very tired for several hours after I drove home from Boston. We shall see.

Then there’s Passover prep. The first seder is Saturday night this year, and there’s still a lot to do between now and then. We’ve started our house cleaning, shopped for dry goods and dairy foods, and planned menus for the week of Passover. Al will finish the bulk of the cleaning this week and the rest of the shopping for perishables, but I still have client work pending and other to-dos to complete.

I’ve revised the Haggadah that I wrote last year, and we’re getting organized to have a Zoom mini seder with family on the first night. But there is still more cleaning and all the cooking to do. So I’m hoping that my second dose won’t throw a monkey wrench into the works. We shall see.

How is this week before Passover different from all other weeks before Passover? We shall see.

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: Aron Visuals

Mud Puddles

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I read somewhere that March 2020 came in like a lion and stayed. So here we are, a very long and difficult year later, and the wind is gusting outside. I take a walk on a late Monday afternoon, before the sun sets, and the chill catches me by surprise. But I keep on walking. My flannel winter mask helps to warm the air I breathe.

When there’s no one else nearby, I lower my mask to inhale more freely. As soon as I see or hear someone approaching, I raise it again. I’ve gotten quite adept at moving to the opposite side of the street as another walker appears along my path. It’s all part of our learned choreography in Covid Time.

Most people I pass wear masks, too. And most everyone waves or says hello—more so than in the Before Time, when we took passersby for granted. Now, it feels all the more important to acknowledge each other when we can see only eyes.

Where snow is finally receding, mud puddles glisten in the late afternoon light. The ground looks like chocolate pudding. I inhale the earthy scent and notice a few matted blades of green where lawns have emerged from beneath their white blankets. Mourning doves coo as shadows grow long.

It’s after five o’clock when I return home, grateful for a warm kitchen, but glad that I stretched my legs and worked out the strain in my lower back from sitting too long at my computer. The sun still illuminates scudding clouds with a golden glow. I marvel that I can walk this late in daylight.

Spring is less than three weeks away, March 20. Three days later, I get my second Moderna vaccine. Then comes Passover. I mark time with ancient rituals, miraculous milestones, and the spinning of the Earth.

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: Jock Ocularic