Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

body-mind balance

Resolute

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It’s nearly New Year’s. Already, 2025 looms as an even bigger challenge than 2024. But, we won’t know until we live it.

Which is why, this year, for my resolutions, I have a simple, basic goal. I call it the Three C’s to Strive For:

Inner Calm.

Clarity of mind and purpose.

Courage.

That’s it. I know this will be a constant work in progress. I’m really good at finding lots of things to do to take my mind off what is worrying me. Sometimes this is very productive. Other times, it’s a smokescreen.

How to proceed? I know meditating will help with the first two. Lots of deep breathing. Exercise helps, as well. Limiting my news diet and social media are essential. Writing my novel is essential, too. My acting class, which starts up again mid-January, is a surprising source of focus and clarity.

Courage is a learned skill. My ongoing volunteer work to ensure that our Fair City is able to thrive as it withstands climate change is both a source of uplift as well as an ongoing lesson in how to make a positive difference locally. That’s helped me to become braver in public and to build a team of allies. I hope to keep strengthening those muscles.

Even as I write this, however, I also know that there will be plenty of set-backs and difficulties ahead—but not to let any of that predict what can or will come next.

The only thing that’s real is the moment we’re in. My best wishes to you and your loved ones, Dear Reader, for a healthful, resilient New Year.

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: Oliver Cole

Sleep Tight

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Cold weather makes me want to hibernate. Four days from the winter solstice, I start yawning by mid-afternoon as the sun slips past the trees beyond our home.

Fortunately, the cold weather also makes it easier for me to fall asleep and stay asleep most of the night. I may be jinxing myself by writing this. I sure hope not. Sleep is what’s saving me these days.

I’m also having a lot of very strange dreams. These usually surface just before dawn, when I have to make the inevitable trek to the bathroom. But I’ve been able to drop off again, because it just feels so good to get warm under the covers. And the strange dreams typically dissipate soon after I wake for the day. Which is a good thing. Because they are really strange.

In about a month, daylight will feel longer once more. It will get easier to drive home from Boston on the Mass Pike in the afternoon by late February, when the solar glare going west is less severe. I’ve been noticing buds on the trees and shrubs around our home, always an encouraging sign of new life to come.

And, if I’m lucky, I’ll continue to sleep soundly, regardless of the onslaught of bad news that floods our world. It’s essential to my health and well being, to my resilience and ability to cope. All the more so in such stressful times.

I hope, Dear Reader, that you are sleeping well, too. If you’re struggling, here are some helpful tips from the Mayo Clinic.

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: Daniele Levis Pelusi

Interior Monologue

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In less than a month, 25 days, to be exact, the winter solstice arrives here in the Northern Hemisphere. Which means that in just about two months, even as the sun will be visible about the same lenth of time as it is today, it will seem a little brighter because we’ll be gaining, instead of losing, a few seconds of daylight every day.

I always feel better when we finally reach the first day of winter. Even when it’s cold in January (though that is a relative concept these days) and I have to layer up to keep warm, even as our heating bill balloons, I feel a bit more optimistic, knowing that each day the sun will be shining a bit longer.

But, of course, this is all in my head.

So much of how we experience the world depends on the stories we tell ourselves. They can be empowering. For decades I have told myself that my scleroderma may limit me in certain ways that I need to respect, but it does not define who I am. That story has become my reality, and it’s enabled me to keep going.

But those self narratives, which are often not obvious when deeply entrenched, can also be the source of much pain. When we filter our lived experience through old, worn-out stories that were birthed in childhood, we get mired in doubts and fears and anxiety.

There are a lot of real reasons for doubts and fears and anxieties right now, but I am trying my best not to allow myself to get stuck in old, worn-out narratives that cramp my ability to see clearly how best to respond. It’s hard. Then I remember the natural cycle of the sun, admire November’s sharp shadows, and ground myself, once again. And if the prospect of lengthening days gives me a boost, even if it’s just in my head, I’ll take 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.

Interpolation

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My body is trying to tell me something. My shoulders are in knots. My fingers have developed more ulcers. I’m having trouble concentrating—or, rather, getting myself to the point of concentrating.

This morning, I woke from a dream that I couldn’t find a file in my computer, because the search function was screwed up. What was the file? Some essay I’d written that was titled “Megalomaniacs.” Which, as I write that word, includes an interesting interpolation of letters, which, if you’re following American politics, is pretty obvious.

Before I sat down at my computer to write this post on Monday afternoon, I took my walk around the neighborhood. This is always my immediate remedy for tension. The air was cool but pleasant. Mounds of brown leaves lined the streets, some with squashed pumpkins plopped on top. Most of the maples were bare, though a few pale golden leaves still clung to branches, their tint warmed by the honeyed glow of a sinking sun. An occasional car hummed by. Much of the way, I heard only the shuffle and crunch of leaves beneath my feet. No leaf blowers, thank goodness.

Most of my neighbors’ Halloween decorations had come down, but a few front steps still displayed harvest gourds. Other neighbors had been tidying their yards for winter. One who notably had choked a drive and detached garage with all kinds of stuff that only a hoarder could love had reduced their stash to just one small pile. Another had ripped ugly beige aluminum siding off much of their home to reveal moss green shingles. Even though they’re in need of replacement, the house already has a lot more character.

I passed other women, out for a stroll. We smiled and nodded to one another. Everything seemed normal, which was reassuring.

By the time I got back home, my shoulders had loosened a bit. I was breathing more deeply, always a plus. I’ve been carefully tending my new ulcers, and I was able to walk with my hands out of my pockets for part of my route, without discomfort from the cool air. My head was clearer.

Still, one encounter lingered—a brief chat with a neighbor who was sitting on her front lawn with her American flag, trying to figure out how to display it. “It just won’t hang right,” she said.

Indeed.

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.

What Comes Next, Comes Next

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The election is over. It is not the result I had hoped for. For now, I am just trying to keep my head on straight and focus on what’s in front of me.

And so, I took a walk Sunday afternoon, in the sharp, unflinching November light that reveals each detail of bark and lichen and crumbled leaf. A friend had mentioned a lake not far away that you can circumnavigate via a pontoon bridge that connects to a woodland trail. The weather was pleasant, not too cool, not too hot. And I needed to clear my head.

It took me about 45 minutes to walk the full route. Water gurgled as it lapped the pontoon bridge, a popular attraction for families pushing strollers. A gaggle of teen boys asked me to take their photo against a backdrop of sun-illumined lake. Children ran ahead of their parents, delighting in the novelty of walking across water. Others whined until they were picked up and carried by moms, “just for a little while.”  The woodland walk was less traveled, peaceful, more conducive to sifting and sorting my emotions.

What struck me most, however, along the whole route, was the number of different languages I overheard. That, and the friendly greetings of strangers. Whatever the outcome of this election, we are a big-hearted country made up of people from all over the world who call America home. Many of us, myself included, are children of immigrants and, yes, refugees. Whatever happens, we must remember that. Our diversity, our generosity, our kindness—these are our true strengths.

Here are some photos. Hope you enjoy.

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.