Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

body-mind balance

Awaiting Sunrise

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On a cold winter’s day, I’m thinking of sunflowers. Beautiful, hardy, bright sunflowers have been linked to scleroderma awareness, first in Australia, and now worldwide, symbolizing the sun’s warmth that brings so many of us comfort. At each sunflower’s center are thousands of tiny disc flowers that mature into seeds— symbolizing seeds of knowledge and the quest for a cure.

Sunflowers are also the national flower of Ukraine. Every summer, golden fields of sunflowers blossom across the country, which is the world’s largest producer and exporter of sunflower seeds and sunflower oil. The distinctive bloom is woven into wreathes for celebrations, painted on walls and furniture and folk art.

Before they fully mature and open, sunflower heads follow the path of the sun across the sky and come to rest overnight facing east, awaiting the next sunrise. Various religions have associated the sunflower with spiritual knowledge and a quest for truth and enlightenment. It is an inherently optimistic flower.

So I hold onto that as I have struggled to concentrate this past week, watching the brutal Russian invasion of a sovereign nation unfold. Great bravery and courage inspire. I pray that innocents will be spared, and that Ukraine, with the support of the world, will ultimately prevail.

And to plant more seeds for scleroderma awareness and research, I offer this: The biennial Systemic Sclerosis World Congress, a virtual gathering due to the pandemic, opens next week, on March 10, bringing together experts from around the world to share their work. There is a free Patient Congress, as well, from March 11-12, with presentations by international specialists on many aspects of living with this complex disease. Registration closes on March 7. You can find more here.

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: David Travis

February Thaw

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I was finally able to take a walk Monday afternoon around my neighborhood. The sun was bright, the sky a robin’s-egg blue, temps in the mid ’50s, and my thumb had healed enough so that I could swing both arms without the pain of gravity’s pull on a swollen finger.

All good.

The snow from a recent storm and subsequent snow showers had mostly melted, sending water trickling through storm drains. A mourning dove cooed plaintively from a nearby rooftop. As I walked, the too-tight muscles in my back began to relax. Annoying chatter in my mind quieted, and I focused on what I saw, heard, smelled . . .

Hints of green amidst bleached grass.

A watchful dog’s bark.

A power drill’s whine.

A passerby’s hello.

Tiny buds on tree branch tips.

Hockey sticks slap slap slapping.

Overhead a private plane’s purr.

Wood smoke’s tang.

Sparrows’ chatter.

Sneakers’ scrunch.

Spring can’t come too soon.

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.

Incantation

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A couple of weekends ago, before the Nor’easter that dumped 15 inches of snow on our fair city this past Saturday, I cleaned up my office. It was approaching the point of no return, with too much stuff on my desk in piles, and not enough room in my second bookcase to store everything (the first one being full).

Rearranging some stuff made more room in the bookcase, which enabled me to clear more of my desk, so I now have a nice, uncluttered (relatively speaking) place to work. I’ve also been rediscovering a few gems I had forgotten or just couldn’t see because they were under or behind other stuff.

Among those items is a little wand. It’s made of hard, clear plastic and is filled with some kind of liquid and multicolored sequins shaped like stars and crescent moons. When you tip it one way, then another, the sequins spin and tumble back and forth. It’s quite relaxing, mesmerizing, to play with. Almost magical.

It would be nice to own a real magic wand, one that I could wave and make all the Sturm und Drang of the pandemic, climate change, politics, scleroderma, and everything else stressful and scary to just go away.

It would be nice.

But the only real magic comes from effort and persistence and a determination not to let the harshness of this world in the 21st century squeeze out the beauty and joy and goodness that is everywhere, as well.

Hiding in another spot on my desk was a sticky note with this quote that’s attributed to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe:

“Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic, grace, and power in it.”

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.

Little Victories

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No doubt. It’s winter here in New England. Over the weekend, we got about a half-foot of snow, plus some icy rain. Our bird feeder’s squirrel-blocker, a plastic hood that hangs above the feeder, looked like a snow hat. And it’s cold, hovering in the ’20s F. Today we plunge into single digits.

Despite the bitter weather, which I find rather intimidating, I forced myself out the door twice in the past few days. My first jaunt around the neighborhood, on Saturday afternoon, was my first venture out of the house since before Christmas, because of that darn respiratory, non-Covid virus that dogged me for a good 10 days. It felt so good to breathe fresh air. And I finally have my voice back.

Monday afternoon, I ventured out again, along my half-hour route. I was bundled up in my warmest, full-length down coat, lined boots, scarf, wool cap, aviator hat over that, and mittens. I looked ridiculous. But I really don’t care. It’s a priority to get out and walk whenever I am able, to clear my brain, stretch my legs and back, move my joints, and exercise my heart. I definitely feel better when I get home.

I also feel just a little bit invincible. (Yes, I know, that’s an oxymoron.) If I can get out and walk a half-hour in freezing temps, then I’ve overcome my Raynaud’s and scleroderma for another day. And that, Dear Reader, simply feels great.

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.

Testing, Testing, 1-2-3

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Over the past 20 months, I’ve had plenty of Covid tests. Mostly, I’ve been tested to meet requirements for certain diagnostics, such as a pulmonary function test, or to comply with protocols for my eye appointments at the local optometry college. I’ve also been tested when we’ve had a few Covid scares at home. All have been negative, thank goodness, and all have been PCR tests that take about 24 hours for results.

This weekend, however, for the first time, I conducted my own rapid Covid test, prior to attending a dinner party with friends, as an agreed-upon safety measure. I was able to snag a couple of boxes of BinexNOW Covid test kits ($14 apiece), which contain two tests each, a few weeks ago. Now the tests are out of stock at most places, including Walmart online, which is how I found mine, thanks to a tip from a friend. Hopefully the supply shortage will ease soon. Our city received nearly 70,000 free test kits last week from the federal and state governments, but those are being distributed (appropriately) to those most at risk. So, I’m glad I planned ahead.

The process was interesting. There’s a nose swab, a dropper of special solution, and a card that serves as the test medium. First you wash or sanitize your hands. Then you open the card, check to see that the light blue control line is visible, and place it on a table. I assume it has to be on a level surface. Next, you open the little solution tube and add six, count ’em, six drops to the larger of two holes in the card. And, warns the directions, don’t touch the dropper to the card! This step proved a bit trickier than I expected, mainly because it’s hard for me to squeeze little plastic droppers. But I managed.

The next step is to swab your nose, making at least five circles inside each nostril, lasting at least 15 second on each side. Now, I’ve had my nose swabbed plenty of times, and it never bothers me. However, there is some kind of solution on the swab that really tickled. I had to clench my teeth so I could tolerate it.

Finally, you insert the swab into the card via that large hole until it bumps up against the edge of a second, smaller hole, and turn it five times (if memory serves me correctly). You unpeel the adhesive strip on the card’s edge and close it over the swab, so the whole contraption looks like a giant lollipop. Then you wait 15 minutes to read the results in the little window on the front of the card. If only the top purple line appears, you’re negative. But if you see a second purple line, then you’re positive. It reminded me a bit of waiting on a home pregnancy test.

I set my watch for 16 minutes, just to be sure. Lo and behold, only one purple line. Hurray! Not that I expected a negative result, although it was quite reassuring.

As Omicron spreads exponentially, I’m expecting this to become routine. And even with three Moderna jabs and plenty of precautions, I would not be surprised if I still test positive at some point, given how contageous this new variant is. Hopefully not, but if I do, hopefully a mild case. The reality is that with all the masking, I haven’t caught a cold or other virus that I know of since all this began (knock on wood). At some point, Covid will evolve into an annual endemic like the flu. That cannot happen too soon.

Meanwhile, we’re profoundly fortunate to live in a country that provides vaccines, with new antiviral pills a few months away. This wave is certainly serious, and many will suffer who have chosen not to be vaccinated, not to mention all the health care professionals who are exhausted from protecting us. But a year ago, before the vaccines, this was so much worse. We know more, we have some powerful medical options, and masking works.

Stay safe out there.

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.