Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

finger ulcers

Hair Wars

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In the Department of Little Nuisances, I find myself in an ongoing battle with stray hairs. This may seem ridiculous to report, but it’s one of the odd things about dealing with personal hygiene that comes along with my experience of scleroderma.

To wit, every day or so, one or more stray hairs drops from my scalp onto my face. I can feel it on my skin, but I have a devil of a time removing it with my fingers. In part, this has to do with the fact that many of my fingertips, at present, are swathed in bandages for digital ulcers, so I can’t actually sense the hair with my fingers. It also has to do with the fact that my fingertip sensitivity has declined over years of Raynaud’s, ulcers and nerve damage, so even with exposed fingers, I can’t always feel the thing.

Very annoying. And frustrating. Especially if the hair has fallen on my lips, but I can’t successfully blow it out of the way. I’ll end up wiping my face with my hands or wrists to get rid of the strand, only to have it stick to my clothes, where I can’t pick it off, either.

On days when I have a sense of humor, the whole bit feels like one of those old-fashioned slapstick comedy routines with fly paper, when no matter which way the actor moves, he gets more and more tangled up in himself. I’m imagining Buster Keaton.

But lately, this is just plain annoying, probably because the air is so dry from cold wintery temperatures and my clothes crackle with static electricity. I try to keep a lint roller handy, but the problem with lint rollers is that it’s hard to peel off the dirty layer—just another reminder of my fingertips’ inadequate pincer capability.

While I’m on a roll, here, the other issue with stray hairs involves my bandages. No matter how good a job I do every day to neatly wrap my fingers in clean dressings, within minutes, some hair from somewhere gets stuck to the edge of adhesive and becomes impossible to remove. Often, I have to resort to scissors to nip off the offending hair strand.

Now, admittedly, when dealing with a disease as complicated as scleroderma, this is a pretty minor issue. It’s not life threatening. It doesn’t keep me from doing what I need to do or love to do each day. One way or another, I manage to groom myself and not walk out of the house with a lot of stray hairs hanging all over the place.

But my hair wars are a constant, niggling reminder that there are a lot of things, even the most simple things, that this disease makes ridiculously complicated.

Our skin, the largest organ in our bodies, is an amazingly facile interface with the surrounding world—protector against infection, moderator of temperature, sensor of stimuli, transmitter of information to our brains. When our skin is damaged by scleroderma, our ways of perceiving and interacting with the world change permanently.

No easy solutions to all this. Patience, persistence, creative problem solving and a sense of humor are the best tools, I’ve found. But some days, I still get really annoyed about it all. And that’s okay, too. Anger has its place in dealing with chronic illness, as long as you don’t take it out on someone else or yourself. So I share this rant with you, dear reader, in hopes that you find a constructive way to vent your own frustrations about picayune problems of disease management. More power to us all.

And if you’re having a bad day, here’s Buster Keaton in The General, to give you a lift!

Video Credit: Internet Archive

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

Flying Lesson

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Last Thursday night, Al and I stayed up way too late watching a Batman movie. I was sitting on the bed, changing my bandages—a half-hour process these days, with so many finger ulcers—and he was relaxing, not yet asleep, but tired enough to skip channel surfing.

Somehow, we got hooked on Batman Begins, with Christian Bale as the Dark Knight. It wasn’t the plot—you know from the start how it will end. There were far too many commercials, and if we’d really wanted to watch the movie, we could have streamed it on Al’s computer with Netflix.

There was just something mesmerizing about the telling of the story, which revolves around Bruce Wayne’s struggle to overcome his childhood fears and the loss of his parents, and his quest to save Gotham City from the forces of evil.

I guess I’m a sucker for heroics, imagined and otherwise.

Plus, he could do all those neat tricks with zooming upside-down, snatching up the baddies from their lairs.

And he could fly.

When I was a kid, I used to wonder aloud what it would feel like to be a bird—to have wings and be able to soar around in the sky and land on a delicate branch, way up in a tree.

But much as I wondered about this, I was also afraid of heights. Sitting in a balcony at a theatre would make me anxious, that somehow I would fall over the edge. I was terrified of ferris wheels and roller coasters. When our family visited the top of the Empire State Building, I hugged the outer walls, not trusting the sturdy iron railings to hold (this was back in the day when the 102nd floor observatory was still open to the public).

So it was, nearly 20 years ago, when Al bought me a one-hour flying lesson at a synagogue fundraiser for my 40th birthday, that I thought he was out of his mind. I had certainly flown many miles in commercial airliners by then, but the idea of piloting a private plane was about the last thing I’d choose to do in my free time.

His inspiration for this gift was to give me a bird’s eye view of local landscape, to help my research for the book I was writing about the history of Worcester’s urban forest. I had been telling him all about regional geology and topography, my most recent fascination. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I reluctantly accepted.

The day of my lesson that summer dawned sunny and clear. We met my instructor, a local DJ who went by the handle of Roger X, at the airfield, next to his yellow Cessna. He was jocular and confident, very reassuring as I nervously settled into the pilot’s seat, with him as co-pilot. Within minutes, we were taxiing for take-off. As we rose into the air, Roger let go of the dual controls. I was flying the plane on my own. I began to perspire.

Roger instructed me how to pull back gently on the controls to keep climbing. He told me that flying a plane was as safe as driving a car—the air pressure differential over and under the wings pushes you up. I knew this, I understood the physics, but my heart was slamming in my chest.

And yet. The view was spectacular. I had chosen to fly north, tracing the pattern of Central New England mountains. There were Wachusett, Monadnock, Tecumsah, plopped like dollops of pistachio ice cream, separated by many miles, but aligned. The glacial patterns I had researched suddenly made sense.

I banked the plane in a U-turn, following Roger’s calm instructions, and we headed back. He spoke to the control tower as we approached the airfield. He told me what to do, and to my total amazement, I landed the plane safely. I peeled my sweat-soaked shirt from the seat-back and climbed out on shaky legs.

Relaxing into Al’s congratulatory embrace, I thanked him. Sincerely. It had been, ultimately, exhilarating, one of the best birthday presents ever.

I haven’t flown a plane since (expensive hobby). But I still cherish the memory of that lesson. We each have our own reasons to be fearful, some grounded in stark reality and some imagined, but angst-producing, nonetheless.

When I get stuck, I try to remember: You never know what fears can be overcome, or what you’re capable of, until you try. Sometimes it just takes the push of the one who knows you best to get there. Especially when, in spite of yourself, you really do want to fly.

Photo Credit: Skyhawk4Life via Compfight cc

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.

Flowers at an Exhibition

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Just when it seems like it can’t get any colder, just when the wind chill hits sub-zero, just when my fingers are covered with bandages for seven—count ’em—seven ulcers from too much dry heat and bitter temps, along comes the Worcester Art Museum‘s (WAM) annual Flora in Winter exhibit.

A-a-a-a-a-h-h-h!

For four days, the WAM is filled with the scent of roses and hyacinths and peonies and more, arranged by regional floral artists to interpret masterpieces of fine art. It’s a great scavenger hunt through the museum to find each display. Al and I had a wonderful time visiting this weekend, and I hope you enjoy this virtual show of a few of my favorites to brighten your own winter blues.

"Portrait of a Young Lady," att. Willem Key Flowers by Susan Detjens
“Portrait of a Young Lady,” attributed to Willem Key
Flowers by Susan Detjens

 

"Young Shepherd with Sheep and Goats" by Jan Baptist Weenix and Bartholomeus van der Helst Flowers by Young Farwell/Helen Blazis
“Young Shepherd with Sheep and Goats,” Jan Baptist Weenix and Bartholomeus van der Helst
Flowers by Young Farwell/Helen Blazis

 

"Chapel of the Virgin at Subiaco," Samuel Finlay Breese Morse Flowers by Mary Fletcher
“Chapel of the Virgin at Subiaco,” Samuel Finlay Breese Morse
Flowers by Mary Fletcher

 

"Julie and Aristotle," Alice Neel Flowers by Sandra Tosches
“Julie and Aristotle,” Alice Neel
Flowers by Sandra Tosches

 

"The Sea Gull," Milton Avery Flowers by Robin Whitney
“The Sea Gull,” Milton Avery
Flowers by Robin Whitney

 

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.

Defrosting

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Was it really just last week that we emerged from the deep freeze? Monday afternoon, as dusk was settling, I took Ginger for a late walk and didn’t mind her noodling around, sniffing every other lamppost. This would have been unthinkable a week ago, as the ominously dubbed Arctic Vortex clenched half the country in its icy swirl.

Early last week, as temperatures hovered in the single digits, I barely emerged from my home. If Ginger wanted out, I opened and shut the door as quickly as possible, to avoid the frigid air. We switched over from our heat pumps to our oil burner, since the pumps don’t function efficiently below 10 degrees. My skin dried out. My digital ulcers erupted.

Now, following a delightful weekend in the 50s, my fingers are barely beginning to heal again. A new shipment of fabric bandages (I favor Coverlets, only available by mail order, for their softness and flexibility around my sensitive fingertips) arrived on time, thank goodness, because I was running through boxes of 100 far too fast.

With supplies replenished (I order 1,000 bandages at a time), I’m steeling myself for the next arctic onslaught. That’s right, it looks like we’re going back into the meat locker. The National Weather Service’s 14-day outlook predicts lower than normal temperatures for all of us east of the Mississippi. If you live in the other half of the country, you’re in for warmer than seasonal temps.

According to one hyperventilating summary of upcoming weather that I read, we could be dealing with icy cold into the beginning of February. The author quipped that it will be like those winters your grandparents remember.

This thrills me to no end. But then, I remind myself, this is New England, not the upper Midwest, where temperatures dipped to 40 below over the past few weeks. (My sincere condolences. Really. I cannot imagine surviving there.) Our favorite saying here is if you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.

Time to get ready. I need to get my well-worn sweaters to the dry cleaners, so they are fresh once again. I need to drive my charcoal grey Prius through the car wash, to rid it of a thick coat of road salt that makes it looks as if someone clapped erasers all over a chalkboard (does anyone use these anymore?), before it gets so cold again that the water will freeze the doors shut.

Most importantly, I need to get my mind wrapped around the fact that I cannot do anything to predict or prevent extremely cold weather. It doesn’t really help to read 14-day weather outlooks, because it will all change, anyway. There is no way to know how whatever freezing cold will impact my hands further until it arrives.

A century ago, the great Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton kept his men alive for two year when their ship, the Endurance, became ice-locked and eventually sank on an aborted expedition to traverse the continent. One of the keys to his leadership success and their survival was to encourage his men to play—igloo building contests, dog sled races, singing.

Maybe that’s the best way to prepare for the next deep freeze—tune out the weather forecasts and tune in some great music.

Photo Credit: Sharon Mollerus via Compfight cc

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.

Biker’s Paradise

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In three weeks, it will officially be winter. But January temps arrived here last week, way too cold, too soon. Mornings and evenings in the teens, bitter windchill, the works—only the snow hasn’t arrived, yet.

All of this made me realize that I need to solve a big problem I’ve been ignoring—I need to replace my very worn-out, favorite, red-suede, insulated winter gloves. The holes in the right hand can’t be mended and are growing bigger with each wearing.

Now, for most folks, this is not a big deal. Especially at this time of year, stores are well-stocked with rainbow displays of gloves of all different materials, styles and warmth. But my fingers are much shorter than an average size 7 glove, what I’d wear if I had normal hands. I don’t.

Due to complications with severe Raynaud’s and my scleroderma, my fingertips have all resorbed to stubby nubs. The longest finger on my right hand is only 2¼ inches long. I often have several fingertips bandaged to protect my ulcers. So normal gloves always have about an inch of extra fabric at the top that flops around and makes it hard to pick up things. Also, the fingers are often too narrow to accommodate my bandages. Children’s gloves are too tight.

I lucked out with those red gloves several years ago at a random fundraiser trunk sale. They have Thinsulate lining and roomy fingers that are shorter than standard gloves. No tag. No way to trace their origins.

So, replacing them called for some creative problem solving. I turned to the Internet and googled “women’s gloves short fingers.” At first, all I found were gloves for cyclists without fingertips. I kept looking. There were sites for outdoor adventurers, but those gloves cost a fortune. Custom-made gloves were out of the question.

Then I discovered sites for bikers. A goldmine. It would never have occurred to me, but, of course, bikers need warm gloves for cold weather—sturdy, insulated, flexible leather gloves for gripping motorcycle handles.

The idea of walking into a biker shop, however, felt a bit intimidating. I’m sure I’m guilty of stereotyping, but I’m about as far from a biker as you can get. So I did some more online search and found a great biker retail store near Boston. They sell very affordable leather gloves in a range of sizes, with wide fingers that look slightly curved. Perfect.

I could have emailed, but I decided to call. A pleasant woman named Melanie answered. I explained my dilemma, that I have very short fingers and wasn’t sure what size to order.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re just like me! I have short fingers, too. I hadn’t thought about gloves, though, because I put my bike away for the winter.”

I confessed I wasn’t a biker and described the details of my hand issues.

“You’ve come to the right place,” she said. “Biker gloves come in all different sizes, for a great price.” This all made perfect sense. A real niche market.

She offered to go try on some gloves and report back. We determined that her tallest finger is about a half-inch longer than mine. A few minutes later, Melanie returned to the phone.

“I’m trying on this pair of smalls, and they are quite comfortable on me,” she said. “You might even try the extra-smalls.”

“Are you sure they’ll be wide enough across the palm?”

“I have very square palms,” she said. “Where’s that measuring tape?” She determined that her palm was 4½ inches across to the outside of her thumb joint.

“Okay, let me check,” I said. We were both laughing at this point, comparing these intimate details of our physiognomy. My measurement was about a half-inch shorter. The extra-small sounded like the right size. She assured me that the style runs to a triple-extra-small and likewise in the other direction, and that they take returns and exchanges.

I thanked her for her help and placed my order online. The gloves should arrive in a few days. If they don’t fit, I’ll drive to the store in my Prius, meet Melanie and find the right pair. I may be an unusual customer, but then, hands are hands. And it’s an adventure. Who would have thought my scleroderma would land me in a biker’s paradise?

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.