Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

Mind

Venturing Out

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It’s been years since Al and I went to a wedding in the Before Times. This spring-summer-fall, we have four. The first was this past Sunday evening, the celebration of a young couple’s wedding that actually took place two years ago. After several postponements due to Covid, they had a reaffirmation of vows and a big bash at a country club, about an hour’s drive from our home.

The weather was hot, in the 90s, as thunderheads slowly filled the horizon. Despite one threatening rumble, however, the storm passed us by, the couple had a lovely outdoor ceremony and a romantic photo shoot, and we all moved on to the party indoors in a cavernous event space.

Now, Al and I had our K95 masks for the indoor bash, but the vast majority of guests went without. A few other older adults wore masks, so we didn’t feel completely alone, and even a couple of younger guests did, too. No one made any snide comments, thank goodness. Still, it was a bit awkward to be among the very few covering our noses and mouths, even as I was aware that the crowd included medical professionals and others who believed in vaccines.

At the same time, there was no way I was going to chance it maskless. We’re still in a pandemic, even if almost everyone wants to forget about it. I cannot take any undue risks, given my scleroderma, and neither can Al. Fortunately, we were seated at the back row of tables, and the only other couple at our table wore masks, as well. The rest of the place settings remained empty because, we later learned, those people had cancelled last minute due to medical risks and worries about the Omicron surge. The other couple never removed their masks, avoided the meal, and stayed only part-way through the party.

So we ended up with the best possible setting, by ourselves at a large round table, well distanced from others, while we ate. We danced a little, wearing masks, staying at the edge of the dance floor. And we left after dessert. We both enjoyed ourselves and were very glad that we could celebrate with the happy couple, family, and friends.

I’m hoping that we made the right decisions and have avoided exposure to the virus. So far, a day later, I feel fine, and so does Al. I don’t know when we’ll ever get back to “normal,” whatever that means now. I’m not ready to eat indoors at a restaurant, where we have no idea if others are even vaccinated and the space is more confined (with one exception back in April that worked out okay). I’m starting to plan some travel this summer that requires flights. I’m investigating travel insurance that covers sickness from Covid.

While the introvert in me has managed quite well, thank you, with limiting in-person socializing since March 2020, I now need to get out and about again—beyond just trips to the doctor, small family gatherings, short errands, or our synagogue, where I help to set our Covid policies and we have strict vaccination and masking rules in place that have proven prudent. We’ve enjoyed some lovely, albeit limited, long weekend getaways, and my two writing retreats over the past two years have been godsends. But my world now just feels too small.

So, it’s time to venture forth. It’s time to not be cowed by what-ifs, while taking appropriate safety measures, regardless of what others are doing. Much as I hate wearing my mask, I will continue to do so when in crowds or other Covid-risky situations, both inside and out, as I go.

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: Marc A. Sporys

Passing Storm

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It’s pouring rain as I write on Monday afternoon, much needed after a very warm weekend here in Central Massachusetts. I was planning to go out and run some errands, but fortunately I noticed the darkening sky and heard rumbles of thunder as I was getting ready. So here I am, back at my computer, waiting out the storm.

One never knows what is next.

All of us who live with life-altering disease know this feeling all too well. While we may be able to influence outcomes, given healthy choices, good access to quality care, and enough resources, our bodies eventually deteriorate. And we don’t control the timeline. The older I get, the more I appreciate that the present moment is the only reality. Paying attention is essential. So is the ability to pivot.

Now the sky is lifting and the rain, easing. Thunder grows fainter, confirmed by the radar on my phone app that the storm has passed. We have more information and tools at our disposal than at any previous time in history to help us make thoughtful decisions. But ultimately, making the most of our time on this spinning ball of earth and water and sky means simply to stay present.

I’ll be heading out soon. Be well, Dear Reader.

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: Dave Hoefler

Turtle Lesson

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One of the ways I deal with all of the bleak news these days is to find inspiration in nature. I love watching the birds at our backyard feeder, and the squirrels never cease to fascinate (even as they annoy). Anyone who knows me well also knows how much I love turtles, for their persistence and pace, so counter to our frenetic, busy-for-the-sake-of-busyness lives.

So, when a video popped up in my Twitter feed about turtles joining together to calm and rescue a struggling turtle, it made my day. Here’s the Tweet. If you click on the blue play icon, you should be able to watch it. Or click on the Watch on Twitter button:

If turtles can intuitively band together to help another, flailing turtle to right itself, how much more can we humans accomplish together to care for each other? Think about it.

Image: Timothy Perry

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.

Battle of Wills

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It’s been a couple of those days. Sunday afternoon, I managed to trip on our back doorstep on my way inside and whack my knee when I hit the floor. Fortunately, nothing appears broken, I have no trouble walking and my hands are fine, though I have a sore left shoulder from how I landed. I’m sure it will all heal soon. And I have a very annoying red squirrel to thank for some Monday calisthenics that proved my resilience.

As anyone with a backyard bird feeder knows, squirrels are very clever and find myriad ways to rob bird seed. We have a supposedly squirrel-proof feeder hanging from our maple, the kind with a cage around it, and a clear plastic hood to help keep critters away. Gray squirrels perform incredible acrobatics as they try to get at the seed, but are always foiled.

Not so with red squirrels. Smaller than their gray cousins, they are very aggressive and persistent. I hadn’t seen any all winter and this spring, until Monday afternoon, when I noticed one on the ground, nibbling at seed husks that had fallen from the feeder.

And so our battle of wills began.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, the squirrel had figured out how to climb the pole. It tapped the hood, trying to find a purchase, but the hood wobbled and it scrambled away. Soon, though, it was back, and this time, with a flying leap, landed on the cage itself. A few seconds later, it had wriggled inside and begun to chow down.

Smart little guy, I had to admit. I opened the glass slider to our deck and clapped my hands, and it scurried away. What followed, over the course of at least an hour, were multiple attempts by the squirrel to get inside the feeder, answered by multiple efforts by yours truly to make noise and scare it off.

Despite my hopes of conditioning the squirrel to leave whenever it got into the feeder, the squirrel had other ideas. It was, I realized, training me, instead. It quickly realized that there wasn’t any real danger associated with the noise. So the length of time between its forays to the feeder got shorter and shorter. Finally, I gave up. It’s still gorging itself on birdseed as I write.

All this made me realize I need a new and more effective strategy. So I’ve ordered a different kind of bird feeder that is (a) all recycled plexiglass and shaped so that any unwelcome critter will just slide off, (b) is easy to clean, which our current feeder is not, and (c) will be accessible to larger birds, like cardinals, which can’t fit through the current feeder’s cage.

The very hungry red squirrel will undoubtedly continue to come back to the feeder until all the seed is gone, and then we won’t refill it, but wait, instead, to set up the new feeder. I just hope it won’t try to make a nest nearby, because I do not want it settling around our home and scaring off all the other birds and gray squirrels that I love to watch every day.

Bullies are everywhere.

However, I have this bully to thank for some exercise mid-afternoon that got me out of my chair at my computer, helped my joints to be less stiff, and proved to me that my knee is, indeed, fine. I guess we both benefited, in the end.

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 Allergy Factor

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It finally feels like spring here in Central Massachusetts . . . at least for a day. For the past week, all the flowering trees and shrubs in our neighborhood have bloomed, the maples are flowering, and the weeping cherries and Callery pears are already shedding petals, like so many pink and white snowflakes.

I always love the pastel colors of spring in the Northeast, but inevitably, all the pollen can do a number on my head. It used to be that I’d sneeze a lot and my eyes would water in response to the blossoming. This year, however, my spring allergies took a stealth turn.

Last May, as I’ve described here, I discovered scleral contact lenses to heal my very dry eyes, which were becoming more of an issue due to damage to my corneas from Sjogren’s. The lenses have helped a lot, although they’ve been harder to wear during the winter, when our house gets drier. But in recent weeks, I suddenly found that I could barely keep them in for a few hours, which evolved to only a few minutes last week.

As soon as I’d insert them, they would cloud over. Very frustrating. I wondered if my eyes were somehow rejecting them. Fortunately I was able to get an appointment last Thursday with the good folks at our local optometry college’s dry eye clinic. The students did their usual thorough intake. But when the supervising optometrist came into the exam room, the first thing he asked me was whether I had allergies.

Sure enough, that explained it. The build-up of histamines in my eyes combined with the fact that I can’t produce enough tears to dilute the resulting mucus caused a film to form on my scleral lenses. The answer so far is to try antihistamine eye-drops for about 10 days, and then try the lenses again. I’m glad to report that as soon as I started using the eye-drops, my eyes felt better and are no longer gucking up like they were before.

Hoping that I continue to make progress and can wear my lenses again. I’ll have to build up tolerance once more, but that’s certainly a manageable process. Meanwhile, the pollen mix is shifting. Maybe by the time I put in my lenses, the leaves will be fully unfurled.

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.