Posts from — September 2010

photo by john curley

Here’s the last of my sadness. It’s me—totally honest, totally open with you.

The hardest thing about my erythromelalgia is having to let go. Thinking of the normal, everyday things I’ll miss simultaneously breaks my heart and angers me.

From right here, right after diagnosis, I can’t see the possibility of ever again…

Traveling
Going to the beach
Going to the mall
Sitting at a park in summer
Running
Taking a walk around the block
Having kids
Going outside in summer
Cooking dinner by myself
Showering while standing
Riding a bike
Meet new friends outside of my house

I think about what I had planned for my life—traveling around the world. Climbing mountains. Seeing faraway cities. Having kids. And I feel trapped in my air conditioned cage. Feet up, socks off.

That said, I’m not giving up. Doctors may not know much about EM, but I sure as hell am about to find out all I can. If there’s a supplement or way of eating that might help, I’ll try it. (Let’s be honest, if it would make the searing pain stop, I’d eat a dog food diet for the rest of my life.)

And that, friends, is all. That’s my secret. What’s been eating at me for three months.

Tomorrow I’ll give you the very latest update (consider it the insider scoop) on a doctor’s appointment I had yesterday. I’ll just say it was, oh, 7.4 million times better than the first one I had about my EM.

And after that, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Whee!

photo by heal and inspire

Yesterday I told you some backstory about my condition. Today, the name: erythromelalgia.

So far, the hardest part of having erythromelalgia was the diagnosis. I suspected I had the disease. It’s very rare and under-diagnosed, but my symptoms fit perfectly and I did a lot of googling. Still, it wasn’t real since a doctor hadn’t diagnosed me.

When I went to the vascular surgeon, I wanted answers. I wanted to know why this was happening, why now, and what I could do to get my life back. Here’s what he said:

Yup, you have erythromelalgia. There’s really nothing you can do. Just try to avoid anything that makes your feet flare up.

And he headed toward the door. It took all my strength not to cry in front of him. I made it out of the office, to the car, and through a traffic light before that started.

No cure. No treatment. No answers.

To avoid triggers, I’d have to avoid air over 68 degrees, standing, sitting with my feet on the ground, walking, running, and anything else that involves getting off my couch and lowering my legs.

I was—am—crushed.

I’ve made a lot of modifications. At work, I slip off my shoes and put my feet up under my desk.

At home I keep my feet raised on the couch (putting them on the floor lets blood rush to them). I sit on the counter to make dinner, and The Man takes over when I start to burn. I sleep with a fan on my feet at night, covers only to my ankles. My house stays air conditioned to 68 degrees or lower.

I rush to the couch to elevate after a particularly burn-inducing activity—like showering, washing my face, or standing in the kitchen.

I’ve stopped wearing closed-toed shoes and socks. And as you’ve probably noticed on the blog recently, I’ve stopped going to the gym. It’s been four months since I last worked out. And it burned. (Incidentally, it’s also been months since I walked more than a block or stood for longer than five minutes.)

I know this post is so completely at odds with what my blog is all about. It’s fun. It’s goofy. It’s positive. And yet this is ridiculously depressing.

Next week, I’ll return to normal posting. I’ll probably mention my EM on here, but I’ll leave the depressing stuff with The Man.

In the meantime, are there any questions you have about my condition that I can answer in an upcoming post?

photo by prob1t

So yesterday I left you with a cliffhanger about my new health problem. I know, that wasn’t too nice. But I figured we all have such short attention spans on blogs that it’s actually nicer for me to cut it short. Besides, now I have a series: The Tracey’s Falling Apart Series.

I guess this would be Part Two: Wherein Tracey Stops Being Funny.

Seriously though, there’s really nothing to joke about here. About three months ago, I started to notice my feet (and sometimes my fingers) were getting very hot and swollen during the day and especially at night. I had attributed this to my Raynaud’s (in which blood vessels constrict, leaving hands and feet freezing in response to cold) since blood vessels dilating after an attack can become inflamed.

But then it started happening when my feet weren’t even cold. And it was happening a lot. Now, it happens multiple times a day.

Sometimes it starts on the tops of my feet, like an itch. Those are the best times. The burn covers my feet and ankles and sometimes lower calves. It’s like taking a hot shower with a sunburn.

The majority of the time, though, it starts in my toes. That signals the worst. My feet swell and turn bright red. The veins bulge like they’re about to pop. And I burn. It’s the burn you feel after playing in the snow for an hour and then run your frozen feet under boiling water. It’s like my veins are full of acid. Like I’m standing in molten lava.

Guys, I’m not going to lie. It sucks.

Sometimes the burn starts after 10 minutes of standing. Sometimes after two. It’s worse at night—though I don’t understand why. It happens when I walk for more than a few minutes.

And here’s the kicker—it’s set off by heat. So if I were to, say, sit outside in 70-degree weather, my feet would flare. In 80 or 90-degree temps like we had this summer? I cry, too.

Here’s the treatment: Get a fan. Point at feet. And raise them over your head.

And with that, I think I’ll take a break. The series continues tomorrow with the details (like, you know, the name of the condition).

photo by d sharon pruitt

No, I haven’t been lying to you guys. It’s just that I haven’t been telling the whole truth. See, once you write something online it becomes true. (I have a million dollars.) And, well, I guess I didn’t want this thing to be true. But it is.

First, my longtime readers know this but in case you’re new: I’ve been living with chronic knee pain for six years. It’s limited how much walking I can do since my knees generally ache while standing, walking, climbing stairs or running. I had been doing physical therapy to build leg muscles that would stabilize my knees, and I had been getting PRP to (hopefully) take care of the cartilage damage on my kneecap.

So that’s where I’ve been. Not really fun, but I was learning to adapt. My knees were—I truly believe—getting better. And then this.

I’ve been diagnosed with another condition that makes standing, walking (among other things) painful.

And now I realize I’ve rambled on for way too long without even getting into what I really wanted to say, which is kind of a lot. So let’s save that for tomorrow.

It’s like a cliffhanger minus the loaded gun and mysterious dark shadow.

Do you feel like putting something out there—on your blog, in an e-mail or whatnot—makes it real real?

photo by d. sharon pruitt

Early on in this whole broken-knees thing, I found out I have super flat feet. Imagine a penguin here. (Not that my feet look like that, but oh my gosh they’re so cute.)

The treatment, naturally, was to spend $500 on a pair of orthotic inserts for my sneakers and another pair for my dress shoes. I splurged on them because A. my knees really hurt, B. I would have tried anything for relief, and C. I had nothing better to do with my money.

Of course I’m kidding about C.

Anyhow, I really thought that having custom-made inserts and sneakers specifically designed for flat feet left me better off. And I still think that. My body mechanics are too screwed up to go au naturale.

Still, I recently read about a study in which researchers gave a bunch of Marines shoes designed for their specific arch height and another group general stability shoes. After 12 weeks, the number of injuries each group sustained didn’t differ—hinting that those $165 running shoes made specifically for high arches or low arches or tweener arches might not be worth the money. (Unless, of course, they look super cool as cool-looking shoes are the most important thing when training.)

Instead of arch support, the real importance, the researchers say, is in getting new shoes often enough. Which I guess is easier when you’re not forking over close to $200 for them.

That said, I’m going to be honest: I’ll still probably keep buying arch support sneakers. The 20 years I went el cheapo with running shoes left me shuffling around like Frankenstein. And though my knees still aren’t fixed (don’t even get me started on that), I do notice a positive difference when I’m not flat footing it.

What are your thoughts on sneakers that support your specific arch needs? And also: How much are you willing to spend on a good pair of running shoes?

Are you exhausted? Feeling sluggish and lackluster? Having a hard time keeping droopy eyelids open? You may be suffering from sleepiness.

Sleepiness is emotional: Confusion. Disorientation. Lack of interest.

It’s physical, too: Yawning. Snoring. Spontaneous unconsciousness.

Sugar can help. Sugar is a natural medication that treats the emotional and physical symptoms of sleepiness.

Tell your doctor right away if your sleepiness worsens or you suddenly go blind. These may be signs of a serious problem. Stop taking Sugar if you have unusual changes in mood or behavior, such as euphoria or hyperactivity followed by crankiness and mind-blowing withdrawl. Sugar is not non-habit-forming.

Side effects are mild and may include dizziness, headache, nausea, weight gain, attentiveness, drowsiness, cavities, heart palpitations, hand tremors, procrastination, and the unexplainable ability to bounce off walls.

Sugar is not for everyone. People taking MAOI inhibitors, NSAIDs, statins, and/or Tylenol should not eat sugar. Do not take Sugar if you operate heavy machinery, such as a car, laptop, or cell phone. If you are pregnant or nursing, or hope some time in the next 30 years to become pregnant or to nurse, do not eat sugar; it may turn your baby into a gremlin.

Do not take sugar if you sleep more than eight hours a day or fewer than seven hours. Do not take sugar after 9 p.m. as this may interfere with sleep patterns. Sugar may cause you to eat everything in your kitchen, including that old stale cereal you almost forgot about. Sugar is not for children under 12 as it may interfere with nap time and quiet time. Children under 12 who eat sugar may sprout wings and rapidly fly around the room like bats.

Ask your doctor if Sugar is right for you.

Because you don’t have to be sleepy anymore.

photo from all movie photo

So glad you guys liked the peach baked oatmeal. Seriously—it’s good. I’m going to bet it’d be even better with whipped cream, but—thank heavens—I don’t have any. That could get dangerous.

So the other day, as I was reading through some medical news, I came across two studies about Alzheimer’s and dementia and general mental decline that I thought were interesting. The first found that even a small amount of exercise—walking for 40 minutes three times a week—can prevent mental decline in couch potatoes. The other showed that drinking wine is linked to better brain function on mental tests.

Bottom line: Keep active and drink some wine. Your brain cells will thank you.

I always find Alzheimer’s and dementia really sad. (It might have something to do with The Notebook and how I want to curl up into the fetal position and bawl every time I see it.) But there’s another reason. About four years ago, I saw a Notebook-type scene play out when I was vacationing with my family in Cape Cod.

photo by all movie photo

We were in Chatham, a small town with rows of shops lining the main street. It’s one of those towns you see in the movies, where the boy and girl hold hands and drink milkshakes and maybe kiss in the gazebo under some twinkling lights. Only it was daytime and the gazebo was a stretch of grass across the street from a candy shop and a store that sells Life Is Good T-shirts. From the sidewalk, I could see an old man with khaki pants and sneakers talking to a police officer.

The old man was frantic, tears snaking down his cheeks, hands flailing in the hot air. “She was gone. Just gone,” the old man said.

“Well she’s okay now,” said the police officer. His voice was calm but sad. He turned toward the lawn and nodded at another officer. Waved. An old woman shuffled beside the officer, eyes fixed on the street. Unaware of the tearful old man.

The old man held her gaze, then ran to her. He wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face in her neck.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. The tears slowed, salty remnants still streaking his cheeks. “I didn’t know where you went. And I looked everywhere but you were gone.” The old man’s voice was shaky, like rocks in a tin can.

“I went for a walk,” she said, confused.

The old man grabbed her hand. He guided her to the sidewalk, mouthed “thanks” to the officers, and walked toward town. His hand clamped hers like a vice. He’d never part with her again.

Do you ever think about keeping your mind strong to prevent future mental decline?

Some time between laundry loads No. 4 and 5 this weekend, The Man and I found a great farm stand just 10 miles from our house. (Don’t even bring up the fact that 10 miles from my house is 40 minutes away. I don’t want to hear it.)

Along with mini purple sweet peppers—yes, they’re insanely cute—I got a bunch of super ripe peaches. And then The Man started to feel sick, leaving me with almost-smooshy peaches and no peach-eating partner.

So I decided to make this breakfast-slash-dessert I saw the other day. Go ahead, tell me I’m a horrible wife for baking something so incredibly delicious (because it was) when my husband is living off of Saltines. I’ll just point out that I saved him a bite. Really.

Honestly, this thing is so good it counts as dessert. But I think technically—because of the fruit and oatmeal—it’s breakfast. It’s kind of like how chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream pass for breakfast at IHOP. Don’t ask. Just eat.

First, slice up some peaches. Or apples. Or pears. Whatever. Just take the skin off and make sure they’re sliced real thin.

Next, drizzle some melted butter on the bottom of a baking pan. I used only a teensy bit though the recipe calls for ¼ cup. Go light or go wild, then layer your fruit on the bottom.

Next up: a sprinkle of sugar. Instead of Demerara sugar, which I don’t own, I used brown sugar. And I used less than called for since I’m a rebel.

Good. Now that that’s over, set it aside and get working on the wet ingredients. Mix ’em all together in a bowl. (The recipe calls for way more butter than I used again—that’s me living on the wild side.) Warning: The maple syrup will turn the mix all brown, which isn’t pretty. But don’t worry—it’ll all taste good in the end.

Add the dry ingredients to another bowl. (Yes, there are many dirty dishes involved. It’s the price you pay for a good meal, really.)

When that’s all done, pour the wet into the dry and mix it up.

Then pour the mixture over the fruit. Top with almonds—slivered are best but use what you’ve got. And sprinkle some more brown sugar on top.

Pop the whole thing in the oven for 40 minutes and voila. Breakfasty, desserty goodness.

And of course, The Man made an exception to his stomach ache diet to try some.

With milk, naturally.

And it was good.

photo by ratterrell

There are a few good reasons a long weekend was just what I needed:

To dust my entire bedroom.

To find a nearby farm stand and stock up on green beans the length of my arm.

To re-watch What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.

To drop off a hefty load at Goodwill.

To care for The Man, who decided to get sick on our three-day holiday weekend.

And that is what I’ll be doing today.

What did you do this long weekend?

photo by dadaace

Thank goodness for a three-day weekend. I forgot it was Labor Day until this Monday which means A) my mind has been in some weird alternate reality where I don’t pine for the holidays like a puppy begging for table scraps, and B) I have no big plans.

Well, unless you count donating some old clothes to Goodwill and trying to sell some more stuff on eBay. I’ll likely try to rid my closet of a good chunk of summer clothing that I haven’t worn since ninth grade. This is what I’m now calling my So Long, Summer party.

That’s right, good riddance to sweltering air that coats your skin in a thick layer of humidity. To air conditioned rooms that give just-shaved legs fresh scruff. To random rainstorms that short circuit the power and leave my seventh-floor apartment like an oven.

See ya later.

I’m ready for fall. True, the season just isn’t the same in the Mid-Atlantic; the orange and red leaves can’t rival the pumpkin, crimson and neon yellow ones I grew up with in New England. But it’s wonderful enough.

In this sticky heat, I’m longing for crisp air that smells like firewood. Thick sweaters that hug your skin when the temperature drops at night. Cider sold at roadside markets. Pumpkins that dot every house on the block. And crunchy, tart apples like Macouns and Staymans that only show up for three months of the year.

I’m looking forward to these, too:

Baked Apple Cider Donuts

Unfussy Apple Cake

Sweet Potato Buttermilk Pie

Pumpkin Spice Latte Baked Oatmeal

5-Star Butternut Squash

And apples right off the tree.

It’s a shame this is the shortest season. Because it’s hands-down the best.

How do you welcome fall?