Hearing

Walk This Way

Evelyn Herwitz · August 18, 2015 · 1 Comment

Ever since we got back from vacation, I feel too sedentary. Instead of exploring for hours on foot (true, it was a bit more than my feet could handle), I’m sitting at my computer far too much. Ginger’s no longer here to bop my hands off the keyboard when it’s time to go out for a walk around the block. It’s all too easy just to keep writing and not get any exercise.

So I’m trying to change my habit. I’ve tracked a half-hour walking route around our neighborhood—a manageable distance—and my goal is to get my butt off the chair and out the door at least four times a week.

This is actually proving easier than I expected. In fact, it’s quite pleasant. (It helps to start a walking habit when it’s warm out.) I’ve made it out and about my route at least five times in the past week—even Monday evening, after a sweltering 90-degree day.

Em is home for a transitional break between her summer internship in D.C. and returning to grad school, so she’s joined me a couple of times for a walk-and-talk. On other days, I’ve enjoyed a chance to clear my head and walk in silence. There are plenty of street trees for shade and only a few cars on the side streets to watch out for. We’re fortunate to live in a safe neighborhood with plenty of dog walkers, cyclists, families pushing strollers and other folks out walking or jogging.

Sometimes, I find myself so deep in my head that I barely notice what’s around me. Other times, I try to focus on the colors of the houses and birdsong and gardens as a meditation, staying in the moment. I’ve decided it doesn’t matter which mode I’m in, as long as I stretch my legs, swing my arms and get lungfuls of fresh air for a good, aerobic half-hour.

What if it rains? Depends on how long and how intensely. My alternative is to go to the gym and ride the stationary bike—not as refreshing, but at least I’m exercising.

It remains to be seen how well I can keep this up as the weather gets cooler and, eventually, too cold for me to be outside. But I figure if I establish a solid pattern now, when the walking is easy, my body will get addicted to the exercise and I’ll crave it enough to stick with it.

I definitely feel better when I walk. And worse when I don’t. No doubt about that. I can do it any time I want. Best of all—it’s free.

So, no excuses. Time to get moving.

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.

Photo Credit: Francesco Maglione

Postcards from Europe

Evelyn Herwitz · August 4, 2015 · Leave a Comment

Five countries, seven cities, 14 days. We’ve been home more than a week, but the memories of our trip through Europe resonate deeply. From Berlin to Achern, Germany; from the World War I battlefields in the Vosges Mountains of Alsace to a boat ride along the Seine in Paris; from beautiful Brugge to Flanders Fields, Belgium; from the Imperial War Museum in London to the resting place of Lusitania victims in Cobh (pronounced Cove), Ireland–we traveled by plane, train, bus, subway, car and foot to do research for my novel in progress, set in 1915 during the Great War.

And we made it. I was exhausted, yes, by all the travel. I dealt with a bout of cellulitis in my right foot at the beginning of the trip (thank goodness for antibiotics). I didn’t get enough sleep. But it was magnificent. Al and I found our way, with the help of many angels, to each destination, were blessed with the hospitality of good friends, stayed in wonderful accommodations on a budget (highly recommend AirB&B if you haven’t tried it), ate great food, and enjoyed the trip of a lifetime.

We’re grateful we could go. And dreaming of our next adventure. Here are just a few highlights . . .

Trenches at Hartmannswillerkopf, Vosges Mountains, Alsace, France

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Strasbourg, France

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Strasbourg, illuminated at night to show original colors

Eifle Tower, Paris, from the Seine River — Eiffel Tower, Paris, from the Seine River

Six flights up to our walk-up in Paris — Six flights to our walk-up in Paris

Parliament and Big Ben from the South Bank, London

Fly Away

Evelyn Herwitz · July 14, 2015 · Leave a Comment

When we moved into our home 16 years ago, one of Al’s brothers gave us a squirrel-proof bird feeder as a house warming gift. Last month, we finally hung it on the Norway Maple in the back yard.

Our delay was due, in large part, to Ginger. A frustrated huntress her whole life (she was, after all, a Golden Retriever), she would have had conniption fits with so many birds in the back yard. Now, with her gone, it’s time to give wildlife its due.

And so, my morning’s entertainment, as I eat breakfast, is to watch the birds at the feeder. This is, without question, one of the best antidotes to stress that I have ever discovered. For me—not for the birds.

In fact, our backyard feeder has become quite the point of contention. A blight of house sparrows (yes, “blight” is the actual term for a group of them, or, if you prefer, a “humiliation”) has taken over the feeder. I had no idea they were so aggressive. They have batted away chickadees and house finches and scared off nuthatches. No cardinals have visited the feeder yet, despite the fact that we’ve filled it with black oil sunflower seeds (which house sparrows supposedly don’t like—not true). Morning doves, being ground feeders like their pigeon cousins, clean up what drops below, along with a chipmunk.

I can vouch for the manufacturer’s promise that the feeder is squirrel-proof. One particularly inquisitive gray squirrel has tried numerous ways to get at the seeds (I know there’s something in there!) by climbing all around it, and even going so far as to grab and pull down the springy perch. But so far, it hasn’t found a way to get the goods (though I must say, as a former psych major, the squirrel’s attempts are a fascinating study in learning styles).

The feeder’s hopper is full. When we return from our vacation at month’s end, I wonder how much will be left and if the sparrows will still dominate. Maybe the house finch, with its beautiful scarlet head feathers, will have finally told them off. Either that, or we’ll have a lot of house sparrows nesting in our eaves.

Meanwhile, as I make final preparations for our European travels, checking off items on to-do lists that seem to propagate over night, trying to plan for every possible health-related contingency and knowing that I will just have to deal with whatever happens, scrambling to finish off work for clients and my sewing and last-minute purchasing, I will continue to watch the birds and cheer for the house finch, which grabbed a few seeds while the sparrows weren’t looking.

If all goes according to plan, as you read this, we will be in Berlin, the first of seven cities on our complicated itinerary that takes us from Germany to France to Belgium to England to Ireland. All in the name of research for my novel and visits with friends and, yes, adventure.

Time for a break from blogging. Whatever your own summer plans, I wish you well. See you in a few weeks.

Pep Talk

Evelyn Herwitz · June 16, 2015 · 4 Comments

No getting around it. I need more exercise. One weekly barre class is just not enough to stay in shape. Ever since Ginger died this winter, I haven’t been as good about taking a walk every day—no furry muzzle bopping my hands off the keyboard when it’s time to stretch and get out of the house. And I haven’t felt motivated to go to the gym. It’s chilly and impersonal and the three large flat-screen TVs broadcast an endless stream of bad news, too depressing.

But a visit with my cardiologist last week and my lead rheumatologist on Monday made it quite clear that I will feel a whole lot better if I move more. It’s critical for my longterm health and well being. (Not to mention body image—without Ginger’s nudging to walk regularly, I’ve put on five unwanted pounds since February—all below the waist.)

This has all been complicated by two issues: the fact that if I exert too quickly, I get short of breath due to some physiological complications of scleroderma, and the fact that my feet, despite all my efforts to find the right shoes, tire easily. They’re really sensitive from thinning fat pads, also due to scleroderma.

After long conversations with both trusted physicians, however, the bottom line is this: my body is high maintenance, but if I’m mindful of the boundaries of my endurance, the more I exercise, the more I’ll be able to endure.

So, I basically have to get off my butt and work out for a half hour at least three days a week.

I know I could listen to audiobooks or podcasts or music. But I’d rather read while I exercise. I have a backlog of books and New Yorker magazines. So my first strategy is going to be to try to read while I use the stationary bike. The treadmill is another option, but if I want to go easy on my feet, the bike may be a better bet.

Neither of these options sound thrilling. They don’t call it a treadmill for nothing. And a stationary bike is, well, stationary. But I can’t ride a regular bike anymore because of the pressure it puts on my wrists. So, I have to make the best of what I can actually do.

Another psychological obstacle to overcome: I will never look like all those pictures of buff, attractive people that decorate the fitness center, supposedly as motivation—”This could be you!” Nope. No way. In fact, I think those images do more to discourage me, because the ideal is so far beyond my reach.

But the reality is that striving for an ideal body is so not the point. This is about building endurance, feeling more flexible and confident. Trusting myself that, even if I have this damn disease, I can still be physically strong.

My cardiologist said I shouldn’t overdo it, and there’s no need to do big, strenuous routines on the bike or to run on the treadmill. Just listen to my body and do what I’m comfortable doing, to start, and work up from there.

They convinced me. I know I have to. And who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise myself and actually enjoy the gym. Stay tuned. . . .

Photo Credit: Harry Pujols

Hail, Caesar!

Evelyn Herwitz · June 9, 2015 · Leave a Comment

I tried an experiment last week. I had to go to New York City on business overnight. There is no easy, direct public transit from Central Massachusetts. So, because I was in Boston during the day on Wednesday, I took Amtrak to Manhattan, and planned to take a bus back home the following evening. The bus was scheduled to make three stops in Connecticut along the way, including a transfer in Hartford.

I’m not crazy about long bus trips, but the plan saved me from having to drive home late at night, either from Boston in the east or from Springfield in the west, if I had gone Amtrak all the way.

I thought I was being very organized. I had all my tickets printed out, in addition to the email versions on my phone. For some reason, the bus tickets (one for each leg of the trip home) printed out back to back, which rarely happens on my printer. So I assumed it was intentional to save paper.

Wrong. After a full day’s meeting on Thursday, I made my way to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Midtown and found my gate. Then I noticed, to my dismay, that everyone else in line had two tickets—one to Hartford, and one to their connection.

When it was my turn to present my ticket and photo ID to our driver, I explained my dilemma and asked if I could just show him the ticket and keep it for my transfer. No, he informed me, he had to take it. They don’t accept electronic versions. Only paper. I needed to reprint my ticket when I got to Hartford.

Now, we had 15 minutes in the schedule to transfer busses. I knew the Hartford bus station was small. But I was nervous. And frustrated. If only I’d thought to make a second copy, just in case. After everyone was on the bus and our driver was finishing his paperwork, I asked him again if there was any chance I could show the PDF on my phone to the other driver. No, he reiterated, but he was sure I’d have enough time to take care of it in Hartford.

Nothing I could do but wait the three hours until we got there. We pulled out of the below-ground gate and up into traffic. Lots of it. Our driver welcomed us on the bus and introduced himself as Caesar. If it was too hot or too cold, he said, let him know. No loud phone conversations or music. No photos. I watched a flock of pigeons battling over something on a sidewalk and told myself there was no use getting upset. I just needed to sit back and see what happened.

By the time we got to New Haven, our first stop, we were already 20 minutes late. I was trying my best not to freak out. I called Al and gave him a head’s up—if I couldn’t make my connection, I needed him to drive over an hour to pick me up. Fortunately, he was his good-natured self about this delightful prospect, which at least eased the pressure.

For reasons unknown, on the way to our next stop, New Britain, we got off the highway and onto a series of side roads and byways lined with strip malls, then back on the highway. That put us behind by 25 minutes. I had no idea where we were, so I followed our route on my phone app, just to reassure myself we weren’t lost.

Finally, we pulled into Hartford, a full half-hour behind. I had traded seats with my seat-mate to be on the aisle and able to get off sooner. Caesar told us the gate number for our connection. By a miracle—or, rather, the inefficiency of bus travel—that bus was late, too, and had not yet arrived. So I grabbed my bag and ran to the ticket counter.

The ticket agent was, of course, helping someone else. And. Taking. A. Long. Time. I asked if I could just reprint my ticket, and she told me to wait my turn. Then she announced that her computer was not allowing her to print the other customer’s ticket. Meanwhile, the connecting bus had arrived.

I was at a loss for what to do. Fortunately, Caesar had come to the ticket counter. I’m not sure if he would have checked in anyway, or if he was following up on me. But given that we’d arrived late and he was due in Springfield, he could have just left. Instead, he walked with me back to our bus, pulled out his envelope of tickets, found mine, walked me back to the ticket counter and asked the agent to make me a copy. Of course, the copier was off and needed to charge. Did I mention this is not a 21st century operation? But within a couple more long minutes, it fired up and I had my copy. I thanked Caesar profusely and ran to the connecting gate.

I was the last person on the bus. We sat for another 10 minutes, for reasons unknown, and then departed. I called Al to let him know I’d made it.

“I guaranteed you would,” he said.

“How?”

“I just looked up the directions to Hartford.”

We laughed. Thank goodness. In the end, I made it to our own Union Station just 15 minutes later than I should have and was very glad, indeed, to see Al waiting for me with an open car door.

My knees were shot from the bus ride, with its cramped seating and worn out shock absorbers. And my nerves were a bit frayed. I was really tired. But if it weren’t for our driver, who took the extra few minutes to make sure I was able to make my connection—despite the fact that I was the only one on his bus who did not know the rules of the archaic ticketing system—it would have been a much longer ordeal. Maybe he took pity on me. Or maybe he thought it was ridiculous, too.

Hail, Caesar.

Photo Credit: Daniel Lobo

Hearing

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