Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

how to stay warm

Enter Juno

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Just when I thought the Farmer’s Almanac was going to be right, after all, predicting less than normal snowfall this year, along comes Winter Storm Juno. As I write on Monday night, we are about to get clobbered by what all the hyped-up TV meteorologists are predicting may be a historic blizzard for the Northeast—rivaling the Blizzard of ‘78.

noreaster-goes-12615The wind-up to this storm has been more nerve-wracking than the actual snow, at least so far. Driving around today, I listened to the new Governor of Massachusetts give his first Big Storm news conference, and all the state officials who reassured us, over and over, that everyone knows what they’re doing and are well-prepared to handle Juno.

N-Star is bringing in electrical crews from as far away as Tennessee to deal with power outages. I received an email from our tree service that customers will get first preference dealing with any downed trees. We managed to get an oil delivery this afternoon before the storm hit, which I insisted on trying to schedule this morning, because it will be incredibly hard to reach the oil spigot under a few feet of snow in frigid temperatures the rest of this week. Around 10:30 this evening, we received a phone message from our city about the state of emergency and travel ban beginning at midnight.

All of this is certainly good. I appreciate having foreknowledge about when the storm will start (it’s been snowing since late afternoon), how long it will last (through Wednesday morning) and how much snow we can expect (anywhere from 18 to 30 inches, according to various reports). At least we can plan a little. Good friends up the street with a generator have offered us a place to stay if the power goes out, a great comfort.

But the reality is, there is no way to know exactly what the storm will bring and how to deal with it until we’re in the heart of it. Which got me to thinking of the parallels between really bad weather and really bad diseases. Too much information about what might happen can only make you incredibly anxious. There’s no way to know how you’ll respond until you’re in the thick of things. And there’s a limit to how much you really want to know about all the scary alternatives, because it doesn’t help you to deal with what actually happens, anyway.

So, I’m trying to keep this in mind as I ride out Juno. I felt a lot better this evening once I knew that both of my very capable adult daughters were safe and sound in their respective homes, at either end of the state, and I heard Al walk in the door. Then I found out he has to go to work Tuesday, as the only social worker covering his hospital, since his colleagues live farther away. But he doesn’t have to rush in the morning, and he may just get there by snowshoe, a much better alternative to driving if the roads get really bad.

Ginger has the best attitude of all of us. She may be 16-and-a-half, but she still loves snow. She must have gone outside at least a half-dozen times this evening, each time returning with more snow on her coat. As far as she’s concerned, it’s just another cold, refreshing night outside. 

According to Roman mythology, Juno was the chief goddess, female counterpart of Jupiter and mother of Mars. She was a goddess of childbirth and worshipped as the guardian angel of women.

If this storm is anything like its namesake, maybe all the warning and hype will be a blessing in disguise, keeping us well-prepared and safe from worse fates. As long as the power stays on, we have heat and Al makes it back and forth to work safely, I will try to sit back, get some writing done and appreciate the wilder side of Mother Nature.

And if things don’t work out so well, I’ll deal with that, too. As I keep reminding myself, I’ve had plenty of practice.

Image Credit: Satellite view of developing Nor’easter off North Carolina’s Outer Banks, January 26, 2015, NASA/NOAA GOES Project.

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.

January Blues

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Are we there, yet? I mean, springtime. Not even halfway through January, and I’ve had enough, already. I know, I know. Central Massachusetts is not North Dakota or the Yukon or Siberia. My heartfelt sympathies if you live anywhere nearby. But I really, really hate this.

Last week, the Arctic Vortex, or whatever you want to label evil cold weather patterns, sucked all the warmth out of the air. True, we’d been spoiled by unseasonably balmy weather prior to that. But days in the teens and nights in the single digits are not my idea of a good time.

On Thursday, the worst day of all, I decided to brave the cold, regardless, and spend it as planned in Cambridge. This required some strategizing.

I was taking the train to Boston. But Wednesday evening, I realized that neither I nor Al had cash for my ticket, which I had to buy on the train since there is no active ticket counter at our station. I did not want to have to go to the bank on the way, because it was going to be minus-20F windchill and I was not going to try to manipulate the outdoor ATM from my car or leave my car any more than necessary to enter a building. What to do?

Then I remembered my “T” app on my iPhone. Easy-peasy. All I had to do was purchase the MBTA commuter rail ticket and activate it when I got on the train. Just in case we lost Internet service in the morning due to the extreme cold (like I said, I was in high strategy mode), I made my purchase that night. The app came in handy the next morning, too, when I made sure the train was running on time.

My next challenge came Thursday morning. As I confessed last week, I had damaged both Al’s and my car with a back-up mishap that required a new bumper for my Prius and a repaired door on his Civic. My work was completed Wednesday evening. When I went into our garage, I immediately realized:

a) my car reeked of paint fumes; and
b) I had left my car key in the house because Al had driven it back from the body shop.

This required a scramble with the house key, which I managed to drop on the garage floor and struggled to pick up because, well, I can’t easily pick up flat metal objects. So I had to take off my gloves to pry it from the floor. Which made my fingers numb. I said a few choice words.

Once I finally started the car, I knew I was going to have to drive with the window cracked or risk feeling nauseated by the time I got to the train station. On the coldest day of the year. So I cranked up the heat, opened the back passenger window an inch and set forth.

Fortunately, my Prius has a great heater.

For once, I actually got to the train station with enough time to walk to the train without rushing. Ours is a huge, turn-of-the-20th-century station from the grand era of rail travel, so there was no problem waiting indoors instead of on the platform. And, as it turned out, the train pulled in just as I left my car in the open air garage. So I walked through the garage to the station garbed in two layers of sweaters, a wool shawl, wool pants, leg warmers, my heavy down coat, shearling hat, insulated gloves, poofy hood and a warm scarf to hold it all together. I looked ridiculous, but then again, I’m so used to looking ridiculous in weather that most people don’t consider cold that it didn’t really matter. Plus everyone else was bundled head-to-toe, too.

Fortunately, the heaters on the train worked. We pulled out of the station with the car’s front doors stuck open, but a hardy passenger got up from his seat and closed them, since the conductor was nowhere to be seen. I spent the next hour-and-a-half working on a client project on my laptop, very pleased to be riding and not driving in what proved to be horrible traffic, from what I could see on the Mass Pike Extension as we neared Boston.

The worst part of my trip was the walk from the train platform into South Station, bitter cold. Once inside, it was tolerable on the way to the Red Line. My next excursion outdoors—from the Red Line exit to the inside of a Marriott where I waited for my friend to pick me up—left me a bit queasy from breathing frigid air, even through my scarf, but the feeling passed once I got in the building.

Reversing the trip later in the day, I was glad I hadn’t let the bitter weather get the better of me. I relaxed into my seat on the train, noted the horrible traffic westbound on the Pike Extension with smug satisfaction, then returned to working on my novel for the rest of the ride home. My Prius still smelled like paint fumes, even after airing out in the station garage all day, but the heater kicked in quickly enough so that I could crack the window on the short drive to our house and still stay comfortable.

Best of all? When I pulled into our driveway, it was just barely sunset at a quarter to five. The Ice Man may still cometh, but at least the days are getting longer.

Photo Credit: Sangudo 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.

Power and Light

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I have a new item on my to-do list: Figure out whether we should stick with our current (no pun intended) electricity supplier, or find a more competitive source. This is important, because the rates are jumping on January 1, and we rely on electricity to power our heat pumps, which I rely on to stay warm and keep my Raynaud’s in check.

We switched over to the pumps from oil heat a couple of years ago, in an effort to make our home more energy efficient. We’ve certainly saved a lot on oil (only use one tankful a year, now), but I have to be very careful how I use the heat pumps, to manage our electric bill. There’s a pump in each room, which allows for customized, zoned heat. I try to limit which pumps are on according to where I am in the house during the course of the day.

For the most part, the heat pumps work well, but when the temperature drops below about 15 degrees Fahrenheit, we have to revert to a mix of oil and baseboard electric heat. Also, there have been days already when it’s just been so windy and cold that I’ve turned on the baseboard heat (less efficient, supposedly) in my little office and the kitchen, because it feels more even.

So, Sunday night I began sorting through all the potential options and learning about kilowatt hour charges for electric supply, plus distribution charges and more. It’s a lot to tackle, and we need to figure it out before January 1, when the rates jump.

There are many other things I would rather be doing right now than a cost-benefit analysis of our electrical supply options.

On the other hand, I’m glad we at least have options and aren’t necessarily stuck with a big rate hike. And I’m very grateful to have the means to keep our home warm enough for my body, with my broken internal thermostat, and a husband who doesn’t mind the added expense.

It’s just a cost of living with scleroderma in New England.

My quest for more cost-efficient power comes as we begin the festival of Hanukkah. We light the first candle this evening. I look forward to this holiday every year, because it always falls near the Winter Solstice. So with each candle that we light for the eight days of the festival, we’re getting closer to the point when the days will start getting longer again. Just knowing there will be more sunlight soon always gives me a boost, despite the cold temperatures outside (and higher energy bills, whatever the source).

When you light Hanukkah candles, you’re not supposed to use them to illuminate a room or as a source of light for work. You’re just supposed place the hanukkiah, an eight-branched candelabra, in a window, where the flickering candles can be seen from the street—silently, peacefully conveying their profound message of religious freedom and liberation from oppression.

Power and light come in many forms. On Hanukkah, both are free.

Happy holidays.

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.

Photo Credit: ** RCB ** via Compfight cc

Futurecast

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I wore my long winter coat this weekend. Not the heavy-duty one, but the medium weight, good-for-when-it-gets-below-50F-degrees-coat. And a warm hat. And gloves.

Book of SnowflakesIt’s only the beginning of October, but I’m already pulling out my sweaters and sweatpants, fleece vests and scarves, wool trousers and skirts, as the temperature sinks. This is always the time of year when I feel a bit self-conscious about bundling up while my neighbors are still walking around outside in windbreakers. But I’d rather be warm and keep my hands from turning purple and numb.

According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac website (is it just me, or does that sound like an oxymoron?), this winter in New England will be “much colder than normal, with near-normal precipitation and below-normal snowfall.” Looks like we’re in for a bit of snow before the calendar year is over, then just a lot of frigid temperatures until mid-March.

That is, if you believe the Almanac’s predictions. They claim 80 percent accuracy.

We were discussing this with family and friends at Al’s cousin’s home over the weekend. Those who commute by car and park on city streets were rooting for the Almanac—less to shovel sounded pretty good after last winter’s snow emergencies. For me, however, the words “much colder than normal” are more forbidding than snow storms (until the snow piles so high there’s nowhere to put it).

My winter weather trepidations are tempered by living in a landscape so romanticized by Currier and Ives. New snow is beautiful. It’s clean and sparkly and magical. I always enjoy the mystery of the first snowfall of the season, how it transforms trees into spun sugar.

Nonetheless, snow, by definition, means the temperature is below freezing, and my body just doesn’t adjust easily to the shift. We’re not there, yet, but as I walked Ginger, our 16-year-old golden, around the block on a sunny, crisp fall afternoon this Sunday, I could feel the season’s change in the wind.

Was it still, technically, summer just about a month ago? I have more digital ulcers, more bandages. I’ve turned on the heat pumps to warm the first floor of our home while I write in my small office, just off the living room. I’m wearing long sleeves and a warm cardigan.

Snow or no snow, the idea of “much colder than normal” sends shivers throughout my body. Nothing to do but make sure I have enough layers and brace for whatever winter weather lies ahead. At least we still have the best of the fall foliage to enjoy for the next couple of weeks.

Would I ever move to a warmer climate? I don’t know. I love my home, my community. Much as I struggle with the temperature shift each fall (spring brings its own unique challenges, too), I love all four seasons here.

So, pile on the sweaters and boil up the oatmeal. Colder weather? Bring it on.

Image Credit: Illustrative plates from Snowflakes: a Chapter from the Book of Nature (1863), a collection of poems, extracts, anecdotes and reflections on the theme of snow and the snowflake.  See more: http://publicdomainreview.org/collections/illustrations-of-snowflakes-1863/.

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.