Raynaud's

Just a Cold

Evelyn Herwitz · October 14, 2014 · 1 Comment

I’m kvetchy. I have a cold, and I feel crummy. I know there are many more serious maladies out there, and this too shall pass and all that, but right now, my nose is stuffy and I’m schlepping around with a box of tissues and a plastic bag in hand because I’m going through the tissues so fast, and I’m coughing and sneezing and, and . . .

One of the things I hate most about colds is how they set off my Raynaud’s and joint aches in the first 48 hours. I also hate struggling to breathe at night and not getting a good night’s sleep. My nose is so narrowed by scleroderma that nasal congestion can be a real challenge.

And I hate being in the middle of cooking and realizing my nose is dripping and having to stop what I’m doing, grab a tissue, blow, toss it, clean my hands so I don’t make the rest of the family sick, then go back to what I was doing, only to have to repeat the same rigamarole a few minutes later.

And I hate coughing so much that I can’t finish the meal I just cooked.

But most of all, I hate the fact that everyone refers to this condition as “just a cold.” Because minimizing a respiratory virus to “just a cold” status means that everyone walks around with “just a cold” and gives it to everyone else, instead of staying home and taking the time to get healthy. And not spreading their germs.

When I was a marketing director in higher education, I used to urge my staff to go home if they started sneezing or coughing a lot, to get better and to spare the rest of the department. Sometimes this took a bit of persuasion, because we’re all conditioned to keep working with “just a cold.” Usually I prevailed, however, and most everyone in our open office space appreciated it. And stayed healthier, as a result.

Being cognizant of how we’re not doing anyone any favors by walking around when we’re sick is particularly relevant in light of the news media’s current obsession with the Ebola virus. Ebola is often fatal. It is scary. It is transmitted by direct contact with an infected person’s bodily fluids or contaminated objects, like needles or syringes.

But Ebola is nowhere nearly as contagious in public spaces as influenza, which can be deadly and is spread by sneezing and coughing. By people who don’t bother to stay home when they mistake the flu for “just a cold.”

Consider this a public service reminder to get your flu shot if your immune system is compromised or you have asthma or other respiratory complications. Or any kind of chronic illness.

I’m going to get my flu vaccination this weekend, at a free clinic offered by my health care provider. That is, assuming my “just a cold” has finally cleared up.

Meanwhile, I’ll be loading up on fish oil and Vitamin C and hot tea and soup. And kvetching.

Thanks for listening.

Photo Credit: stevendepolo 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.

Futurecast

Evelyn Herwitz · October 7, 2014 · Leave a Comment

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.

It’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/.

Long Shadows

Evelyn Herwitz · July 1, 2014 · 2 Comments

At last. Sitting on the beach, in the sun, watching the waves roll in. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, lots of SPF 50 sunscreen to avoid getting a rash on my photo-sensitive skin. I won’t be swimming, because the Atlantic is far too cold this early in the season, and the waters off Block Island, R.I., are chilly, and I have ulcers on my fingers that I can’t risk immersing.

But it feels good to be here. Even if the breeze is stiff and I have to pull on extra layers as Sunday afternoon deepens. Even if I can’t swim like I used to as a kid, jumping over the waves and body surfing until I turned blue and my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.

So I sit in my beach chair and read a novel, do a little of the Sunday New York Times crossword, watch Al swim and dive in the surf. I take a nap and work on my tan (have to be careful with this, not overdo, given skin sensitivity). I wonder why the people next to us on the beach, with very loud voices, don’t realize that everyone within 20 feet, at least, can hear every word of their conversation, including how one of the men and two of his friends each won $500 at a craps table in Montreal and other fascinating details (for them, not for the rest of us).

Fortunately, I’m able to screen out their conversation when I read. And no one really seems to mind. On the beach, on a sunny Sunday, it’s live and let live.

As shadows elongate, we walk up the shore, collecting pebbles and even a few bits of sea glass—unusual for this beach, which is usually picked clean. I sit on a large rock as Al explores farther, my arms wrapped around knees to stay warm in the cool breeze, and watch a dad and his three daughters, all in wet suits, play catch with a pink-and-yellow rubber ball in the surf.

On our walk back, we pass a black-and-white mutt worrying a piece of driftwood, barking at its owners as they play in the water, then barking at the driftwood, then shoving the driftwood around with its nose and barking at it again. Someone has made a terraced sandcastle with smooth, rectangular walls; another has created a castle of sand globs and drizzles.

We eat dinner al fresco, across the road from sand dunes, deep turquoise ocean just visible beyond. We stop for an ice cream cone for Al and poke around the little shops. I find a scarf the color of sunset. We check on the Red Sox v Yankees score as the ferry pulls away from the dock for the hour-long trip back to shore. Our boys are ahead.

The day is a welcome escape from work and responsibility and so much sad and disturbing news in the world. On Monday afternoon, headlines announce the tragic murder of the three Israeli teens who were kidnapped more than two weeks ago, hitching home from school, and I sit at my computer screen and cannot concentrate on my writing. Our sunny, relaxing beach trip seems far away. I grieve for the parents and pray that cooler heads prevail, on both sides of this intractable conflict that could erupt at any moment. No good will come of more bloodshed. I pray that my eldest, Mindi, stays safe as she spends the remainder of her vacation in Tel Aviv.

If only we could all just go to the beach and, together, enjoy the waves, and the sun and a long, relaxing stroll as shadows grow long. Naive, I know. If only.

Logistics

Evelyn Herwitz · May 6, 2014 · Leave a Comment

12:15, Thursday morning. I should be asleep by now. I have to rise at 5:10 to get ready and leave the house by 7:00, to drive to New Haven in time to catch the 9:28, so I can arrive in Manhattan in time for an afternoon of meetings, starting at Noon.

This is an experiment. I want to see if I can manage a one-day trip to NYC on business without wearing myself out. But, of course, I can’t sleep, too preoccupied with whether I’ve selected the right outfit for the predicted mix of rain and possible thunderstorms and 70-degree temperatures. If I dress too warmly to ward off dampness, I’ll end up sweating and getting chilled. And if I wear something too lightweight, I’ll freeze, especially if the office has turned on the AC.

When I wake after a meager four hours of sleep, I review the fiber content of the outfit I’ve chosen—a white sweater top that is a mix of silk and cotton, an ivory crocheted cotton cardigan and black wool crepe pants—okay, I’m good. Comfortable and professional, made from natural fibers that won’t trap perspiration, with loose layers to allow plenty of air circulation.

Next step, hands. The night before, I cut all my bandages and dressings to be sure I could take care of my finger ulcers in five minutes instead of the usual twenty. It’s absolutely essential to cover every possible skin crack when I travel, but if I feel pressured by time, I can get sloppy and have to redo the dressings. With everything ready, I relax and neatly prepare my fingers for the long day ahead.

As I do my stretching exercises and get dressed, I rethink my plan for my laptop and decide to shift it from a carrying case to the center zipped compartment of my large purse. The laptop is lightweight, and I don’t want to fumble with extra stuff to carry when I make purchases. I test the arrangement. The purse is roomy enough for easy wallet retrieval, even with the laptop, and remains securely over my shoulder. Check.

After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast—need to be sure I have enough protein in my system to stay awake for the two-hour drive ahead—I head out the door. Only 10 minutes behind schedule. Okay so far.

That is, until it starts raining. Not just raining, pouring. And there’s fog, too. I pull over at a rest stop on the Mass Pike to check traffic around Hartford on my cell phone. I have to drive around the city during rush hour on my way to New Haven. There are two ways to go, and I select the one with the least congestion.

This plan works until I get closer to Hartford and find myself crawling at 11 mph on Route 84. Should have left earlier, but no use getting upset now. Nothing to do but sit out the traffic jam. I decide to catch the next train, if need be, and let my clients know I’ll be a half-hour late. I am not going to run through the station and risk getting winded from what my physicians think is exercise-induced pulmonary hypertension. I had a recent, unnerving episode, and I don’t want to push it.

Once the traffic eases and I get onto 91S, I drive as fast as I can without exceeding the speed limit by too wide a margin. More traffic back-up on the exit ramp to New Haven’s Union Station, but, miraculously, I find a space in the parking garage just one level up. There’s a covered walkway to the station, and the restroom is right down the hall, conveniently located for a quick pit stop. Time, 9:12.

Okay, now I just have to buy my ticket and find the train. Only a few people in line at the counter. Ticket in wallet, I walk briskly to the gate, up a long flight of stairs. The train is waiting. Plenty of seats, still. I settle down, take off my raincoat and catch my breath. Made it! Seven minutes later, we pull away from the station.

By the time we reach Grand Central, all traces of rain are gone. I switch to sunglasses as I climb out of the Union Square subway station. People stroll and hustle in shirtsleeves, shorts, flip-flops. Pink crabapples abound. Somewhere, someone is making a loud May Day speech about workers’ rights. Delivery trucks battle for curbside parking. A siren wails down another block. The air smells of car exhaust and felafel and fresh doughnuts. I unzip my raincoat, slip my collapsable umbrella into my purse and head toward West 17th Street. It’s going to be a good day.

Photo Credit: JefferyTurner via Compfight cc

Tender Is the Grass

Evelyn Herwitz · April 8, 2014 · Leave a Comment

Is it possible? Has spring finally arrived? After this bitter cold, seemingly endless winter, it’s hard to trust. But the signs are visible.

Sunday. Sunny, 55 degrees. The Red Sox opened at Fenway on Friday (Never mind that the Brewers swept the three-game weekend series—we’re just getting started, and Ortiz is still wearing a Boston uniform.)

As I walked Ginger round the block Sunday afternoon, I noticed tender green grass shoots peeping through thatch. Purple and fuchsia crocuses yawned on the sunny side of the street. Even in our shaded back yard, one lavender bud had valiantly pushed its way toward light.

At last. It’s the second week of April, and the forsythias are not yet aglow. But the sun is brighter, the sky, bluer, and only about a foot remains of the last, stubborn, dirty pile of snow out back.

It’s the season of promise and not-quite-there-yet.

Neighbors walk by in jackets and sunglasses. Around the corner, kids’ bikes litter a front lawn. On my route with Ginger, I reluctantly wear my mid-weight winter coat, insulated gloves and wool hat. It may be well above freezing, but 55 is still chilly for me and my Raynaud’s. My finger ulcers are finicky in the spring and need protection and mindful nursing. It will have to get into the mid-60’s before I can switch to a shorter wool coat, high 60’s or even low 70’s before I can send my winter sweaters to the dry cleaner and go without gloves.

I’m also still tending my light-sensitive eyes in the wake of complications from conjunctivitis. The infection of two weeks ago has cleared, but an allergic reaction to the eye drops left me with mild corneal abrasions in both eyes that required more medication. I can now look at my computer screen without discomfort, but reading and sunlight remain tiring. It is just never simple with scleroderma and, in my case, the added complication of Sjogren’s, which renders my eyes, nose and mouth too dry to begin with.

I’ve been extremely frustrated about this over the past week. Writing and reading are such a huge part of my work and daily pleasures that my struggles with vision have been both aggravating and frightening. Why did something as mundane as conjunctivitis have to turn into such an ordeal? What if my vision doesn’t return to normal? How long will this last? Do I always have to get an infection of one sort or another when I travel?

For all these reasons, Sunday’s promise was most appreciated. Those bright green sprigs of grass, the joyful crocus blooms, the barely visible buds on tree branches—just knowing that baseball bats are smacking over home plate once again, whoever wins—all remind me that winter really does end, even in New England.

I will retire my down coats and wool sweaters and don rayon and cotton once again. The days will continue to get warmer, on average, and longer. Leaves will unfurl and shade the street. My eyes will fully heal.

And, if we’re really lucky, the Sox will bring home another World Series championship this season. Welcome back, spring.

Raynaud's

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