Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

mindfulness

Phantom

· · 2 Comments

Seven months have passed since my hands were “revised” with skin graft surgery, nearly five months since I completed 60 dives in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. The weather is warming, the trees are in full leaf, the scent of lilacs lingers. And for unknown reasons, I have begun to experience phantom sensations in my partially amputated right middle finger.

Not pain. Just itching. It’s as if my finger is tingling in a non-existent tip. Quite peculiar. I want to scratch it, but there’s no there, there. Instead, I rub the bulb-like stump that remains, with its confused nerve signals that tell my brain I’m touching the side of my finger when I’m actually feeling what is now the top.

Usually, if I rub the stump for a few minutes, my brain reinterprets the sensation and the itching goes away. I wonder how long this will go on.

There are no ready remedies for phantom limb pain (fortunately, my experience is more benign). Non-invasive therapies include mild nerve stimulation with a TENS device, acupuncture and the mind game of a mirror box, which involves doing symmetrical exercises using the mirror image of your intact limb as a cue, while imagining that your amputated limb is mimicking the same movements.

My phantom itching is so intermittent that I doubt if exploring these or other options is worth the time. But I find the whole experience most curious, albeit annoying. How is it that my brain still thinks I have an itchy finger tip? The location of the itch is always the same, about a half inch above my stump, where the top joint used to be. The finger was actually longer before the surgery. Why that specific location in nothingness?

There is also the strange confusion of how I’m actually touching objects. All these months after surgery, the fact that skin from the side of my finger was used to cover the remaining stump still signals to my brain that I’m brushing objects with that side, even as the skin is now effectively oriented in a 90-degree angle to its original position.

I’m trying to teach myself how to consciously reinterpret what I’m sensing. How odd, to be dealing with this most basic way of interacting with the world at a time when so many assumptions about what is real and true are under siege.

Sensations are hard-wired. Or not. Sometimes they merely shimmer.

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.

Image Credit: Sebastian Spindler

Devil in the Details

· · 2 Comments

I have a small pharmacy’s worth of wound care supplies in our bathroom closet. Various types of gauze, bandages, dressings, ointments, tapes, heating pads, you-name-it, it’s there, the cumulation of decades of experimenting. For my very sensitive finger ulcers, I’ve found one particular brand of bandages that work best—Coverlet. They make a range of sizes, and my favorites are 3/4″ x 3″. They come in boxes of 100, and I order 10 boxes at a time.

Usually, I manage to order more before I run out. But not this past week. I haven’t needed to use as many bandages daily since my hand surgery (fewer ulcers because all the trouble spots have been amputated), so I’ve gotten a bit lax about reordering. I also mistakenly thought I still had some left, because the boxes were stacked on top of some other Coverlet boxes of different sized bandages that I rarely use.

Oops. Big time.

The issue is that these bandages are made of very soft fabric; I have never found anything like them in stores. They breathe and are comfortable all day long. As soon as I realized I had used my last bandage on Friday morning, I ordered another set of 10 boxes and grudgingly paid a steep rush fee. But the soonest I could get a guaranteed delivery was by this Tuesday.

What to do? I spent about a half hour online, researching fabric bandages. Fortunately, I found some decent substitutes at Target. Years ago, I used to buy generic fabric bandages from CVS or Target, but then they changed the specs and the fabric was coated with some kind of stiffening compound that rendered them useless for me. It seems that, in years since, these generics are no longer coated. The offending substance apparently was Latex, which many people are allergic to.

A couple of small boxes of the generic bandages did the trick over the weekend, although my thumb ulcer was not terribly happy with the alternative; the surrounding skin seemed more irritated. Fortunately, my shipment arrived early, on Monday morning, just after I had finished getting ready for the day. It was well worth the extra time to remove the substitute dressings and replace them with my good bandages. Immediately, my thumb felt better.

Before I stored the boxes in the closet, I marked the bottom two: “Second to last/Reorder” and “Last Box!”

Sometimes, the smallest details make the biggest difference.

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.

In Transition

· · 2 Comments

Dare I say it? Finally, spring has arrived. “I thought it would never get here,” one of my neighbors remarked as I walked by his house Sunday afternoon. I commiserated.

Despite last week’s snow (yes, snow), a few tulips, daffodils and hyacinths adorn gardens along my route. In our own shaded rock garden, cheerful miniature daffodils greet me as I enter the back door to our kitchen. Buds on our Callery Pear are swelling, and there is a reddish mist on the maples down the street.

Best of all, I am starting to shed my warm layers. I even walked with my coat open on Sunday. Without gloves. Miraculous.

In a burst of my own creative energy, I decided to start a new sewing project. I haven’t considered anything that hand intensive for about a year, now. The project is a light-weight, unstructured coat for transitional weather. I found it online, a pattern you download and print. It took me a few hours after I returned from my walk to piece together the tiled segments, then cut out each piece and mark with sewing construction notes.

On Monday, a few fabric swatches I’d ordered arrived in the mail. They are luscious, lovely wool tweeds, but I’m not yet certain if there will be enough yardage available for the coat (end of season bolts). So I will keep looking.

What pleased me the most, so far, is that the process of assembling the pattern pieces—aligning and cutting and taping—was both manageable and fun. No hand problems or pain. I know this is going to take some time to finish. I hope it won’t be fall before I’m done. But that’s the beauty of sewing a coat for transitional seasons; even if it takes me all summer to complete, I’ll be able to wear it when I’m finished.

As with everything I do now, I have to refigure how to use my hands post-surgery. Pacing myself through a sewing project is essential. I don’t want to mess up my hands in the process. But I also don’t want to avoid one of my favorite creative hobbies for fear of hurting myself.

Spring has arrived late this year. We may still have some chilly set-backs. I can’t recall when I last pulled out my sewing machine and serger—at least a year has passed. With longer days and warmer weather, I’m ready to try again.

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.

How’re Y’all Doin’?

· · 2 Comments

Punxsutawney Phil may have seen his shadow last week, predicting six more weeks of winter (of course, technically, there are always about six more weeks of winter after Ground Hog Day). But Al and I took a break from freezing cold at home and headed south Wednesday night, landing in New Orleans for a long weekend. On Thursday, we were walking around without coats. Even when the weather dipped into the mid-50s, it was still welcome, compared to Massachusetts.

I’d been imagining this trip for several years as I worked on the first draft of my novel. Now that I’m starting revisions, I need to know more about my protagonist, who immigrates from France to New Orleans as a child in the 1870s. So the plan was to mix research and fun, to escape winter’s frigid clutches and celebrate my healed hands. And celebrate, we did.

NOLA is known for its incredible cuisine and did not disappoint. The jazz was great, the art provocative, the neighborhoods intriguing. Most people we met were welcoming and went out of their way to be helpful. Strangers looked us in the eyes and greeted us with a friendly “How’re y’all doin’?” as they passed us by. We caught Mardi Gras beads flung from parade floats (celebrations fill the month leading up to Fat Tuesday), noodled around stores and art galleries, walked and walked and walked. Our Lyft drivers told us about life in their home town and their experiences during and recovering from Katrina. On Sunday morning before we left, we strolled along the banks of the mighty Mississippi in Crescent Park and watched a sky blue freighter steam slowly past.

My research included an immersion in selected materials at the Historic New Orleans Collection, a walk through the Hebrew Rest Cemetery, a look at the city’s oldest hospital, rambles through the Garden District and Faubourg Marigny neighborhood to photograph the many and varied styles of housing. I thought about light and heat and immigrants and masks.

Saturday evening, we discovered a vintage costume shop, filled with bling. As Al shopped for the loudest tie he could find for Purim (a Jewish holiday with its own carnival vibe), I scanned the racks and discovered a beautiful beaded overblouse. I tried it on. Lovely. But when would I ever wear it? I left it on the rack, and we went to dinner across the street.

Good as the meal was—outstanding Middle Eastern food—I wondered. Why not? If the store was still open when we finished, I said to Al, I’d like to go back. As we walked up to the door, the owner and her clerks were about to lock up. But she welcomed me inside. “You need to make your own festivities,” she said as she wrapped the overblouse in white tissue paper and placed it in a purple plastic bag.

Even with the freezing temperatures here, I’m glad to be home. We packed a week’s worth of touring into three-and-a-half days, I was fighting a cold, and I’m tired. But it was well worth every minute. My hands held up. No infections. Many sights and ideas to mull. Make your own festivities, 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.

Sideways

· · Leave a Comment

I had my first visit with my new occupational therapist last week and learned a few things. I learned that it takes about 18 months for your nerves to rewire after the kind of surgery I’ve undergone on my hands—but that most of the change happens in the first 6 months. I learned that my skin grafts will never have full sensation, although I can sense more than I realized. And I learned that I’m not imagining how the skin flap on my middle right finger is sending confusing signals to my brain about what I’m actually feeling and how my finger is oriented. More on that in a minute.

My OT works in my hand surgeon’s office, so she has a ton of expertise when it comes to my specifics. This is a great blessing. She explained that even if some of my nerves don’t regenerate, others may learn to compensate. To get a baseline assessment, she had me lay my hands outspread (as much as I can) on the table, palm down and then up. I had to close my eyes while she tapped different spots on my fingers with a series of plastic filaments, from a hair’s breadth in width to the thickness of a pencil lead. When I felt something, I let her know.

This took a while, but what we discovered is that my ability to sense touch is better than either of us expected (a good thing) and that my grafts have both deep pressure sensation and the ability to detect heat and sharpness (a very good thing). So, at least, I should be able to avoid burns and serious cuts. It’s not a free pass, but reassuring.

My right middle finger, in turn, has good sensation except for the flap’s seam. Basically, skin on the right side of that finger is now folded over the top and connected to the left side, with the top third amputated. It looks odd and stumpy, but it works well enough. What’s curious is how I think I’m still touching objects with the side of my finger when I’m actually feeling with what is now the rounded tip.

My OT explained that the nerves in what used to be the side of that finger are specialized, and my brain is still registering sensation as if my finger is moving sideways. Combine this with the fact that the finger is now a third shorter than it used to be, and it’s no wonder I can’t quite figure out where it is relative to objects I’m touching. Fortunately, she said, this will resolve with time as my brain rewires. Fascinating.

More sessions to come over the next few weeks as I learn how to use my hands again. My homework is to practice curling what’s left of my topmost knuckles before I bend my lower knuckles to approximate a fist. That way I achieve more of a grip. I’ve discovered that it helps to practice this while holding the steering wheel of my Prius, which is thick and padded and just about the right curvature.

Mostly, however, I need to be more mindful of how I reach and manipulate objects. I suppose this will become second nature with time. But it doesn’t hurt to bring a sense of purposeful awareness into simple movements. A good lesson there, too.

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.

Image Credit: Hunter Harritt