Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

mindfulness

The Allergy Factor

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It finally feels like spring here in Central Massachusetts . . . at least for a day. For the past week, all the flowering trees and shrubs in our neighborhood have bloomed, the maples are flowering, and the weeping cherries and Callery pears are already shedding petals, like so many pink and white snowflakes.

I always love the pastel colors of spring in the Northeast, but inevitably, all the pollen can do a number on my head. It used to be that I’d sneeze a lot and my eyes would water in response to the blossoming. This year, however, my spring allergies took a stealth turn.

Last May, as I’ve described here, I discovered scleral contact lenses to heal my very dry eyes, which were becoming more of an issue due to damage to my corneas from Sjogren’s. The lenses have helped a lot, although they’ve been harder to wear during the winter, when our house gets drier. But in recent weeks, I suddenly found that I could barely keep them in for a few hours, which evolved to only a few minutes last week.

As soon as I’d insert them, they would cloud over. Very frustrating. I wondered if my eyes were somehow rejecting them. Fortunately I was able to get an appointment last Thursday with the good folks at our local optometry college’s dry eye clinic. The students did their usual thorough intake. But when the supervising optometrist came into the exam room, the first thing he asked me was whether I had allergies.

Sure enough, that explained it. The build-up of histamines in my eyes combined with the fact that I can’t produce enough tears to dilute the resulting mucus caused a film to form on my scleral lenses. The answer so far is to try antihistamine eye-drops for about 10 days, and then try the lenses again. I’m glad to report that as soon as I started using the eye-drops, my eyes felt better and are no longer gucking up like they were before.

Hoping that I continue to make progress and can wear my lenses again. I’ll have to build up tolerance once more, but that’s certainly a manageable process. Meanwhile, the pollen mix is shifting. Maybe by the time I put in my lenses, the leaves will be fully unfurled.

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.

Eleventh Plague

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Last week was a roller coaster ride. It’s always a hectic time, preparing for Passover, what with all the cleaning and switching over our kitchen to our special Passover dishes and cooking, cooking, cooking. But this year, for the first time in three, we had planned to host the first seder on Friday night in person. Like so many families readying for the big holiday weekend, be it Passover, Easter, or the evening meals of Ramadan that coincide this year, we were really looking forward to, at last, celebrating together across a real table, rather than on Zoom.

Al had worked late in the kitchen on Tuesday, getting things ready so I could begin cooking the next morning. But when I came downstairs on Wednesday, he seemed weary and not himself. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I’m just tired,” he said. About an hour later, he was retching in the bathroom. My heart sank. I had recently learned that the Omicron BA.2 variant of Covid often presents with GI symptoms.

I sent him to bed, donned mask and gloves, and gave him a rapid test, which turned up negative. But I also knew that the rapid tests aren’t necessarily accurate in the first few days of symptoms with this variant. So I called our clinic and was able to get us in for PCR tests early that afternoon. They said we’d have results by the next day. I emailed our family that we were in a holding pattern for Friday night.

Al spiked a fever that afternoon and evening, but fortunately, he was fever-free by Thursday morning, not yet hungry, but able to eat a bland diet. I spent the rest of the day food shopping, cleaning, and cooking more food that evening. His condition continued to improve, but no PCR results. I emailed family that things were looking better, and we would confirm plans in the morning. I went to bed dog-tired.

Friday morning, still no PCR results, but Al was back to normal. We decided to green-light the seder, understanding that anyone who felt uneasy about coming should do what was best for them. All had to take rapid tests and have a negative result to attend. Our cousin’s husband, a physician, decided to stay home because he had been fighting a cold, which he told me with “97% certainty” was not Covid, but he went ahead and got a PCR test anyway, at his wife’s insistence. Finally, late morning, our PCR tests came back negative, a huge relief. Our daughters arrived late afternoon, and our other relatives that evening. I finished all my cooking just before everyone came. We had a wonderful seder together, and all felt so good to finally be able to share the meal and all the rituals in person.

Saturday morning, our physician cousin, whose family was hosting the second night, sent us all an email. He had tested positive. Now what? To my surprise, I did not freak out. There was nothing to be done. And I wasn’t going to spend the weekend fretting about the possibility of developing Covid symptoms. We ended up with just the four of us for the second seder. Our eldest returned to Boston that evening, and our younger daughter left for Philly the next morning. None of us have developed any symptoms, nor have our cousins who were exposed at home, who came here. Given that, if you’re infected, you can shed the virus 24-48 hours before becoming symptomatic (and most people do have symptoms), but all appeared to have spent the weekend symptom-free, we are most likely in the clear of a second-hand Covid infection.

A good thing, because Monday was my 68th birthday, and I really didn’t want the gift of Covid! I spent the day writing, which was wonderful.

So goes life in Covid times, which are not really over. Not yet. I hope you and yours enjoyed a lovely weekend, whatever holidays you may or may not celebrate. 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.

Oasis of Calm

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Last week, I spent four days on Cape Cod by myself, just to focus on my own writing. It’s the second time in about a year that I’ve given myself this kind of mental and physical space to write. It was a wonderful, productive time, in a beautiful setting, surrounded by nature. I wrote and planned and walked nearby beaches of the Cape Cod National Seashore. Nothing like getting away from all the distractions and cacophony of bad news to reset my mind and soul, think about what really matters—and make my own art. Here’s a taste . . .

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.

Orchidstration

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Monday morning, while readying for the day, I was listening to a podcast interview by Krista Tippett with the celebrated children’s author Kate DiCamillo. In a wonderful, deep conversation, they explore the “mysterious fact that hope and heartbreak live so close, side by side, in real life,” and the power of story to make that bearable. Maintaining a sense of wonder in the world, well past childhood, is key. You can find the interview here.

In that spirit of wonder, I share my photos from last Friday’s visit with Al to Tower Hill Botanic Garden. Their spectacular orchid show gave me a lift, and I hope it will for you, too. 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.

Stress Test

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When I was in elementary school in the ’60s, we used to have air raid drills. We would file out into the hallway, kneel down, put one arm under our foreheads and the other covering the backs of our necks. And wait for the all clear. Pretty ludicrous, as were the supposedly reassuring cartoon films we were shown about how to stay safe in a nuclear attack.

One day, when I was in fifth grade, our entire school marched down to the local air raid shelter for a tour. We held hands with the first graders, and the six graders escorted the kindergarteners. We all thought it was pretty neat—staying there would be like a camping trip! Our teacher, however, was so concerned for our well-being that he just let us just play and have fun the next day. We got pretty rowdy by afternoon, and he ended up yelling at us.

We all express stress differently.

That we could be seriously discussing the risks of a nuclear war, today, is beyond belief. In Ukraine, enemies battle over control of a nuclear reactor and bombs drop out of the sky onto schools. As I watch the news, I am at a loss for what to do, other than make contributions to legitimate NGOs that are assisting innocent victims of this unwarranted tragedy.

I feel extraordinarily fortunate to live in a place where my most difficult decision in all this is how much news to consume. I am trying to find the balance between staying informed and drowning in the deluge of tragic reporting. I don’t want to look away, but I also need to take care of my own health and well-being, or I’m of no use to anyone.

So, I am trying to be grateful—for family and friends, a warm bed, a home to call our own, a peaceful neighborhood, money in the bank, freedom of speech, the right to vote, so much more. If there is any lesson to be learned from these terrible times, it is never to take anything for granted.

I’m also trying to follow this wise advice from Oliver Burkeman’s “The Imperfectionist” monthly email. You can find his entire essay here:

“It’s been common in recent days to see people complaining that it’s hard to get any work done, or to get on with ordinary life in general. But this may be the moment for a judicious measure of tough love. Perhaps you just need to get on with things anyway! If you wait, instead, for all the existential threats to pass, all the desperate human suffering to subside, you’ll be waiting forever.

“So don’t wait. Not just because marinating in the news helps no-one, but because what you’ll be doing instead—meaningful work, keeping your community functioning, being a good-enough parent or a decent friend—that stuff actively does help. There’s something you’re here to do. And I highly doubt that it’s doomscrolling.”

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: Screenshot from “Duck and Cover” film, 1952, via Wikimedia Commons.