Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

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Unfurling

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This past weekend, pastels proliferated. The temperature soared to mid 70s F, and Nature saluted with pink cherry blossoms and lemony forsythias, lavender violets and purple hyacinths. Within a few hours, nascent, chartreuse leaves unfurled to greet the sun. Glorious.

I’ve always loved spring in New England, when it finally arrives. Even as temperatures stutter for a few weeks in April, sometimes into May, the longer daylight hours and luminous garden palette lift my spirits. Watching the tree canopy expand each day never ceases to fascinate. Even the yellow pollen that will soon dust car windshields is a reminder of renewal.

All the more so as we emerge from Covid, step by cautious step. With vaccinations increasing every day here in the U.S., I’m beginning to feel my optimism reviving, too.

I got a real boost last Tuesday, the day I was fully immunized, when I finally got my hair cut again after a four month hiatus waiting to be vaccinated. It had definitely gone wild. Every morning, when I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of Albert Einstein. But given that my hair was longer than it’s been in decades, I decided to ask my stylist to shape it a bit fuller this time. After all, might as well make the most of it.

She did. I was so happy when I left the salon, I felt like a new woman. That mood carried me for the rest of the week and still lingers. Carpe diem.

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.

Aftermath

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One week past my second vaccination dose, one week to go until my COVID-19 immune response is full bore. Here’s how it went:

Getting the shot was a breeze. I found parking right away, not always guaranteed at Boston Medical, and there was no crowd at the clinic. A trainee was working with the nurse who administered my shot, and she engaged me in conversation, so I didn’t even realize I’d received the jab. My nurse recommended taking a photo of my CDC vaccination card and storing it in a safe place as documentation. I overheard another patient saying she planned to get hers laminated, which I thought was a good idea. Everyone was upbeat and wished me well. Very professional.

I drove home without a problem, ate some lunch and even did a little work at my computer. Then, the fatigue fog rolled in, not on “little cat feet” à la Carl Sandburg, more like a herd of elephants. I shut off my iMac, went upstairs, lay down in bed, and binge-watched Downton Abbey for much of the rest of the day. And I slept.

By Wednesday, my joints were flaring. No fever, and I was able to get a few hours of work done. But sitting at the computer became impossible by early afternoon. And my morning energy dissipated like mist. Fortunately, I had cleared my calendar in anticipation of a reaction. Back to bed and more Downton. It has been decades since I’ve spent that much time in bed watching TV because I wasn’t feeling well.

Throughout the day, family and friends kindly checked in to see how I was faring. By evening, about 30 hours after I’d received my dose, I felt the aches and fog lifting. I had done my best to keep hydrating, as the nurse had recommended, so I’m sure it helped some, but I also know my body well, and it always takes time for my system to clear. Just a waiting game.

I slept well again. On Thursday morning, I felt like myself, although I noticed that my left arm felt warm. When I checked in the mirror, I had a huge rash that stretched from where I got the shot to a few inches above my elbow. A little online research turned up a new term, “Covid arm.” This is a non-serious reaction to the shot, more common with Moderna, that can occur up to a week later, on average. Mine was only very mildly itchy and responded well to cortisone cream. I also took a Benadryl tablet that evening, which may or may not have had an effect.

Five days later, the rash is almost gone. I’m looking forward to next Tuesday, when I’m fully immunized. Months ago, when the Covid variants surfaced, I rescheduled my haircut to wait until I was fully vaccinated. Thanks to serendipity, I picked next Tuesday. Taming my four-month-long mop will be a great way to celebrate.

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: Chris Barbalis

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

Good Fortune

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If all goes according to plan, by the time you read this on Tuesday, I will be on my way to getting my first Covid vaccine dose. I have a late morning appointment at Boston Medical Center. This feels like a miracle.

Just last Thursday, Massachusetts opened up vaccination eligibility to those of us aged 65 and older. The online appointment system was not ready for the onslaught. It crashed Thursday morning.

My younger daughter in Philadelphia had stayed up past midnight to see if she could snag me an appointment, but none was to be found. Later that morning, she valiantly tried again and again to see if anything was available online, but no luck. I looked a few times, halfheartedly, but had the same experience. Demand far outstripped supply.

Not only that, but our system here is abysmal. Despite all the brilliant high tech innovators who live and work in Massachusetts, for some reason, the online portal was designed backwards. Instead of there being one centralized entry point, where you register and create your user profile, then search for appointments, you have to start with finding an appointment, then fill out all the forms, and then—and only then—if the appointment is still available, can you schedule it. At one point, my daughter got through almost all the pages of forms for an opening, only to have the system crash. This was not an uncommon experience.

My theory, which fortunately proved correct, was that I’d have my best chance of getting an appointment through my specialists at Boston Medical. The hospital was a major Covid treatment center for Boston during the big surges, and they serve a high risk urban community, so there was good reason to expect they’d get a supply. I had written my rheumatologist at the beginning of February to ask if there was any way he could help. He had actually written me back a week later, but I missed the message, only finding it late Thursday. I responded, and on Friday afternoon, got a message back from one of the nurses whom I’ve known for decades.

She informed me of a number to call to make an appointment. We had a couple more messages back and forth, and then she called me and explained that, now that I was in one of the eligible categories, because I was a BMC patient, I could schedule directly with them. Not only that, but they had just received a huge shipment of vaccines that had been delayed due to all the storms in the Midwest last week, and appointments were wide open. So, I thanked her profusely and called the number. After a short wait, I reached a scheduler who even gave me multiple options for Tuesday. Hallelujah!

I have heard stories from friends who have found their own workarounds. Several have gotten on waiting lists, expecting nothing, only to be surprised by a call a few days later about leftover doses. Others have found medical sites that were giving shots to 65+-year-olds even before that category opened up. Still others know front-line workers who will call them if there are leftover doses at day’s end.

It’s all about connections, right now. Even as I’ve worked my own, it shouldn’t have to be that way. You’d think the Powers That Be would be sure there were enough doses to meet demand before opening up a new eligible cohort of hundreds of thousands of citizens. From reports I saw, on Thursday, however, there were just 70,000 doses, which got snapped up, somehow, in-between website crashes. So those who cannot wait any longer—my social worker husband, now fully vaccinated as of Friday, thank goodness, sees clients every day  in their homes, which increases his risk and mine—must be resourceful.

As more vaccine becomes available, and, I hope, the process is streamlined, this mishegas will be just another story to tell someday about how we got through the Great Covid Pandemic. To all of you who are waiting and searching and hoping to get your vaccination soon, I wish you patience, ingenuity, persistence, and luck.

The true miracle, worth remembering, is that powerful vaccines are already available, even if the roll-out has been choppy, for avoidable reasons. For that, for getting my first dose today—and most of all, for staying clear of Covid, as far as I know, for nearly a year—I am truly grateful.

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: Bianca Ackermann