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Implanted

Evelyn Herwitz · July 30, 2019 · Leave a Comment

Three-and-a-half months have passed since my latest resorbed molar was extracted, and Monday was the big day for the next step: drilling a hole in my healed jaw and screwing in the implant. When I had my checkup with my periodontist two weeks ago and he proclaimed me ready, his receptionist joked, “Want to come back this afternoon?” Most certainly, not.

I did my best not to dwell on the pending procedure. On Sunday, we got to the beach once again, this time on Boston’s North Shore, for a beautiful afternoon of perfect sunshine, light sea breeze, and warm enough water for me to wade up to my waist several times. Just the right distraction.

I busied myself with writing Monday morning, but as the hour grew near to go, I briefly imagined just staying home and not being my normal Do Bee self. The Do Bee won out. On the 45-minute drive to my periodontist, at least the WGBH radio hosts were talking about something amusing: what listeners watch on TV to ease the stress of the daily news cycle. (Marie Kondo was a favorite.)

Then came waiting for the procedure to start. When I’m anticipating dental work, I really have to force myself to stay in the moment and not get overwhelmed. Sitting in the reclining dental chair, covered by paper drapes, I studied the art on the wall (an interesting abstract painting, not your typical bland office art), the plastic wrapping around the overhead exam light’s handles (why does it need extra covering when they’re wearing gloves, anyway?), and contemplated how much plastic waste that medical providers generate in the interest of sterility. (Literally, tons. According the Journal of the American Medical Association, health care facilities are the second largest generators of waste in the U.S., producing 4 billion tons annually. That’s a lot of disposables, including a lot of plastic.)

Fortunately, my periodontist and I enjoy similar music during these procedures, which are strenuous for both of us. As he injected local anesthetic into my gums, I focused on Vivaldi. This was especially helpful as he prepared my jaw for the implant, which involved a lot of scraping and pressure and pulling my tight mouth into very uncomfortable distortions. The selection was Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in A Minor, which I played years ago in high school, and I could still remember some of the bowing.

Then came the drilling. This drowned out all the music, causing my entire skull to vibrate. The hardest part was getting the drill and suction and other tools into my mouth. But he managed, thank goodness, and the worst was over in about twenty (long) minutes. Screwing in the implant took some manipulation, but at least I could rest my mouth in-between the different steps. As he’d predicted, we were finished in under an hour. Definitely easier than the extraction, which took twice as long. He was pleased with the result, and I finally relaxed.

After a 45-minute drive, plus waiting at the pharmacy for antibiotics (always a necessary precaution for me), it was a relief to get home. Another three months of healing and trying not to chew on the right side of my jaw, and then it will be time for my dentist to put in the crown. Much as I dread this procedure, I’m glad I took care of it sooner than later. Being a Do Bee—on my own behalf— paid off. (And for those of you who remember Romper Room, here’s the official Do Bee song.)

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: Jenna Lee

Lemonade

Evelyn Herwitz · June 4, 2019 · 2 Comments

Al is back home, from Israel, and so am I, from a lovely weekend in Florida with cousins I had never met. Last fall, my second cousin contacted me out of the blue, having found me online (this, we agreed, was both amazing and a little creepy, given how much information is out there that we don’t know about) to send me a host of family memorabilia she had saved from her parents’ home when she moved them to live near her a few years ago. That message evolved into a correspondence over the winter, and this weekend I went to meet her and her nonagenarian parents for the first time.

We had a great visit. And I’ll write about that for a future post. But what I want to write about today is my crazy travel experience, no thanks to American Airlines.

All went smoothly on Friday for the first leg of my trip, from Boston to Charlotte, N.C. But as soon as our flight landed, I received a text from American that my connecting flight had been cancelled. They automatically rebooked me . . . on a flight to northwest Florida that left close to 10:00 p.m. This would not do, as it would have been a nine hour layover. Fortunately, I was able to get on a flight that left closer to 6:00 p.m., and the time zone switch saved another hour at my cousin’s end. She was most understanding, and so now I had just five hours to kill.

Then I remembered: a friend and former colleague of mine from my days as a college marketing director lives in Charlotte. On a whim, I sent her a message. Maybe she’d be available to get together? Total long shot. But, as I was finishing lunch in the airport’s huge atrium, I received a text back. Not only was she available—she was on her way to the airport with her family, heading for a weekend family graduation get-together! What are the odds? I met her at the gate for her flight, and we spent a wonderful hour catching up. Hadn’t seen each other in 14 years.

My rebooked flight boarded about an hour later, and soon I met my cousin and was off on our family reunion adventure.

Sunday afternoon, my cousin dropped me off at the airport to return to Boston. I’d been saying auf Wiedersehen instead of goodbye, because her parents were originally from Germany, like the rest of my mother’s family—it means until we see each other again. I didn’t realize how literal that would become.

The gate for my flight back to Charlotte was jammed, not only with travelers for my 4:00 p.m. flight, but with unhappy travelers for the earlier flight to the same destination who were now delayed and on standby for my flight. But our flight didn’t board. And didn’t board. And didn’t board.

The story we were told was that the flight attendants had not yet arrived (although they were apparently staying at a nearby hotel). When I asked the gate attendant what was going on, he said, “If I told you the story, you wouldn’t believe me.” “Try me,” I said. But he wouldn’t take the bait. He did, however, help me to rebook my flight for the next day. By the time I left the airport with my cousin, who kindly put me up for another night, the flight still hadn’t taken off. According to my Flight Aware app, it eventually landed four minutes after my (also delayed) connecting flight departed.

Now, the complicating factor was that Al was returning home from Israel on Monday evening, and I was planning to pick him up at Logan. But my new schedule meant that I’d get back to Boston (if all went well) at 5:00 p.m. No time to go home and come back. Instead, however, I worked out an arrangement with the van service I had planned to take back on Sunday, to pick us both up Monday evening. Since Al was flying Air Canada, he was arriving at the same domestic air terminal as I was, from Charlotte. Fortunately, I was able to store my carry-on in one of the last overhead spaces on my flight (I was in boarding group 8) so I could stay inside the main terminal, have dinner, and just meet him at the exit point for Air Canada, as opposed to hanging around baggage claim.

Amazingly, this time, my AA flights went like clockwork, and Al’s long-haul flight to Montreal and return to Boston did, also. We both made it through large airports for our connections. I had a nice meal at Legal Seafood. And we got to ride home together without me having to drive, a good thing, because I was pretty tired.

So, that’s how I spent my weekend. Glad to be back. Glad I went. Glad it all worked out so well, in the end.

Image: Francesca Hotchin

On the Town

Evelyn Herwitz · May 14, 2019 · 1 Comment

I did a lot of walking last week, through and beneath the streets of Manhattan. The first half of the trip was business, the second half, pleasure—spending time with my sister to celebrate our birthdays, which are three weeks apart. And celebrate, we did.

From dinner at Ellen’s Stardust Diner, where the waitstaff are all Broadway hopefuls who belt out show tunes, to a walking tour of SOHO, Little Italy and Chinatown; from a lovely stroll up the High Line to a gourmet dinner and an outstanding performance of To Kill a Mockingbird—we had a great time. The weather was beautiful, for the most part. Our hotel off Times Square was surprisingly quiet. We discovered an excellent diner for breakfast and another for some of the best apple strudel I’ve ever tasted. And we started brainstorming our next trip together.

I’m happy to report that my new sneakers worked out pretty well. My feet certainly got tired, but not as tired as they usually do, and without significant neuropathy. Also notable: as I schlepped through the subway, to and from commuter rail, New Yorkers helped to carry my carry-on up and down steep staircases. Without my ever having to ask. Angels are everywhere.

Along the way, I enjoyed wonderful art, on the street and at the Met. Here’s a sampling for your viewing pleasure:

Art Deco with words for our times at Rockefeller Center

Artistic and delicious pastry at Ferrara in Little Italy

Street art across from the Whitney Museum entrance to the High Line

Art Deco murals and design at the Hotel Edison

The Beatle’s original instruments at the Met’s “Play It Loud” exhibit . . .

Berlin artist Alicja Kwade’s “ParaPivot” rooftop installation at the Met . . .

. . . and a spectacular view of the NYC skyline beyond Central Park

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. . . .

Image: Paul Herwitz

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.

Image: Daniel Frank

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