The Iron Skillet

Years ago, after rheumatoid arthritis began to take its toll on my hands and wrists, I gave away my well-seasoned, treasured iron skillets. I simply couldn’t lift them any more.

Searching for a good alternative, I discovered that a stainless steel skillet is worthless for sautéing because everything sticks to the pan. The only remaining option was an aluminum non-stick skillet, so I bought one, and another, and another. No matter how careful one is, the non-stick surface becomes scratched and worn through. Toxic, so the whole pan has to be replaced, and where does the old pan go? Into the landfill, of course.

Recently it was time to replace yet another non-stick skillet. I shopped and shopped but couldn’t find an acceptable replacement. Then, while grocery shopping, I walked down an aisle that featured pots and pans. (I still find it strange that one can buy such things in a grocery store, but I guess that’s why they’re called supermarkets.) There an iron skillet caught my eye. Eureka! It had two handles. All of my 2-quart saucepans have two handles and I can lift them even when they are full.

That iron skillet was so tempting I had to try to lift it just to see if I could. Yes, I could! I tried tilting it. I could easily do that, too. Into the cart it went and we’ve been using it ever since with great pleasure. Not only does it have two handles, it also had been pre-seasoned, so there was no breaking in period.

Last evening I decided to bake cornbread in the iron skillet. The results amazed me. The cornbread was moist in the middle and nicely browned on the top and bottom. It popped out of the skillet as easily as a loaf of whole wheat bread does. Sorry I didn’t get a photo until most of the cornbread was gone.

Hooray for Lodge iron skillets, made in the U.S.A.! That’s the kind my grandma used, and no other skillet measures up to it.

Copyright 2015 by Shirley Domer

Big Yellow Taxi

Lately I’ve thought a lot of the phrase from Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.”  The refrain is, “Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone?”

Every time I look at my swollen thumb, that phrase runs through my mind. That’s the course of rheumatoid arthritis; joint by joint it eats away cartilage and soon the bare bones are rubbing against each other, grinding away. With this process, one’s abilities are diminished, diminished, diminished until few remain.

Oh, I’ve learned many adaptations to my disability. I use tools such as pliers, scissors, and jar openers for tasks my hands used to do with ease. I’ve switched from one-handled saucepans and skillets to ones with two handles. I use a pasta fork to pull clothes out of the dryer. But there are some tasks, such as putting sheets on a bed, for which there are no tools. For those things, I have to depend on others.

With each loss of ability I come to appreciate what I had but have lost. I look at undamaged people with awe as they skip up steps, lift heavy objects, use a keyboard, and much more. I admire hands that can use nail clippers and aerosol sprays, hands that can reach into the back of a shelf to retrieve objects.

Once, long before I developed this autoimmune disease, my mother watched me pulling weeds in my flowerbed and remarked, “Shirley Carol, you are going to ruin your hands.”

In the arrogance of strength and vitality I retorted, “Mother, God gave me hands to use.” This warning haunts me. Why didn’t I listen to my mother? I just didn’t know what I had. Now that it’s gone, I do.

I still have good eyes, though, and can appreciate Nature’s beauty, such as this geranium brightening the deck.

And I can admire the burgeoning prairie coneflowers attracting great spangled fritillaries to their nectar. Two fritillaries were feasting when I took this photo earlier this afternoon. I hope you can spot them.

And don’t forget to appreciate your hands and to treat them as the treasures they are.

Copyright 2015 by Shirley Domer

Falling Apart

Severe rheumatoid arthritis eventually causes one’s skeleton to fall apart. It doesn’t fall apart all at once, thank the goddess, so there’s usually time between joint losses to have replacement parts put in and other repairs done. The longer I live, though, the faster parts are failing, and right now I need to have repairs done to my left ring finger, my left big toe, and my right knee. I’m now falling apart too fast to keep up with the repairs, none of which can be done at the same time.

Well, one step at a time. I’m gearing up for fusion of the middle joint of my finger four days from now. It’s pretty obvious that it needs to be done.

The recovery time is six weeks, just in time to have a new knee joint put in. Like an old car, I’m always in the shop. Sorry to overdo the metaphors, but I envision my skeleton as an anatomy class skeleton, all  wired together.

Sometimes people ask how I have the courage to have one surgical procedure after another. I can only say that I have two choices: have surgery or become totally disabled. The choice is obvious, and I owe my life to Orthokansas, the orthopedic surgery practice that keeps putting me back together.

Copyright 2014 by Shirley Domer

Happy Home

The winter dragon lashed his tail again. This dragon is more fierce than most and he packs quite a wallop. This time the forecasters predicted ice and sleet, followed by lots of snow. We fretted about the possibility of losing electricity, the worst thing that can happen in winter. My bones knew something was coming. My joints ached. Sharp unexpected pains took my breath away. I could barely stand to walk. 

Finally, after three days of my pain and the weather people's dire predictions, we got no ice, no sleet, and only about three inches of snow.

What did happen, though, was very depressing. The temperature dropped to 8º F in the day and to -8º F that night. Lethargy set in, both physically and emotionally. I didn’t accomplish anything and I didn’t care. It seemed that winter would never end.

The temperatures will moderate now, starting with today near 40º F.  My aches and pains have gone away. I’m elated and feel energy returning. This morning I decided to polish an old pie tin. I found it and its twin at a thrift shop years ago. They are small, measuring just eight inches from rim to rim.

I’ve made many pies for two in these tins. They cheer me and I treasure them for their endurance through the decades, for the pies they have held, and for the women whose hands created those pies.

It’s nice to have come back to life, happy at home.

Copyright 2014 by Shirley Domer

Got 'Er Done!

Living with increasing disability has some interesting aspects. For example, when I undertake a task I haven’t done for a long time I never know whether my hands are still capable of doing it. All the joint replacements in my fingers have broken down, leaving my fingers attached to my hands only by skin and muscle. I can still use my fingers, but they are not strong and have a weak grasp.

That uncertainty showed up big time when I decided to make my granddaughter a flannel nightgown for Christmas. Cutting out the pieces was no problem, but I kept putting off the actual construction and didn’t get it done for the holiday. Fortunately she has a January birthday, and last week I knuckled down to construct the garment.

Although I’ve done a lot of machine construction of fabric wall hangings in recent years, I haven’t made a garment for ages. Several aspects of the process were challenging: picking up pins, making gathers, threading elastic through a tube, threading the sewing machine needle with fused wrists, grasping a needle for hand-sewing. But, by golly, I got ‘er done.

I even had fun adding my own touches to the pattern, such as a faux chenille collar.*

Now I want to sew more. A jacket for Zander. The wall hanging I started in May 2012 and set aside when I had wrist surgery. A cushion for my kitchen perch. I’m happy that sewing isn’t one of the pleasures I have to give up to rheumatoid arthritis.

*Faux chenille is made of layers of unhemmed strips of bias-cut fabric. When washed and dried, the layers curl up.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

Birds, Books and Bread

My friend Pam sent a message saying that I seem happier at home than here in Galveston.  It’s true that I have been disappointed this winter. I had looked forward to walking the beach every clement day. Vigorous exercise in salty air is my main purpose in coming here. Sad to say, my body wasn’t up to it. My left ankle swelled and reddened with inflammation every time I took a beach walk. Finally, about two weeks ago, I quit trying.

Being in this lovely place but unable to fully enjoy it is difficult. I’ve been restless, feeling cooped up and mistrustful of my failing bones. Times like these are a test of character, I believe. What does one do when one’s expectations do not become reality? The Navajo principle of being in harmony with reality comes to mind.

Finding joy in the possible instead of longing for the impossible seems to be the solution. I watch the water birds in the bay and canals. I bake bread and have altered the recipe to fit into a loaf pan. I read books that take me away in time and place. Yesterday I went to Fair Isle, Scotland, an island very different from Galveston. I’m going back there today.

I’m biding my time, resting my foot, waiting to get home and see my foot specialist. In the meantime, it’s birds, books and bread for me.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

The Enemy within

Once again, I have been humbled by a rheumatoid arthritis flare-up. Life was smooth sailing for days on end but then the enemy within hit my ankle to remind me of my vulnerability and eventual mortality. The ankle swelled. It was red and hot with inflammation, too painful to bend or walk on.

Thankfully, my brother and sister-in-law were here to give support. Holmes cooked meals and Candace did laundry and washed dishes.

I gathered my small arsenal of anti-inflammatory weapons – ibuprofen and sage tea. Holmes recommended a product called Curamin, a compound containing curcumin for pain and boswellia for inflammation. We found some at the Peak Nutrition Center in Galveston. I elevated my ankle and used ice packs, twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. To calm my fears I rested and read Wolf Hall.

Two days down the road I’m walking comfortably again for short periods. The swelling is almost gone. Holmes and Candace will leave for Missouri today and I will be on my own. If I’m careful I’ll soon be able to walk on the beach again with beauty all around me, but I must always be mindful of the enemy lurking within.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

For Those Without Money, It's A Heartless World

Tomorrow afternoon I will undergo yet another surgery, the third since August. My right wrist will be fused, strengthening my hand and relieving me of intense, debilitating pain. This is possible because I have good health insurance. It will cause no financial hardship for me or Dennis.

But tonight I'm thinking of others, mostly women, who suffer the ravages of rheumatoid arthritis and who do not have health insurance, who cannot even consider having surgery to restore function and relieve pain. Their lives and the lives of their families must be living hell.

Surely a great democracy can provide its citizens with health care. This should be a basic right of all Americans. But this country, replete with technology, fine automobiles, vacation homes, and material possessions of every ilk, does not grant all of us this right. As Dennis said last evening, "For those without money, it's a heartless world."

Bad News and a Blessing

For a while my second wrist surgery was going well. I cooked. I washed dishes. Then a new kind of pain arose in my right hand, intense and breath-taking. I was again reduced to being a one-handed person.

When I went to the surgeon for a final check of the surgical outcome, I said a new problem had arisen, probably unrelated to the surgery. The surgeon ordered X-rays of my right wrist. He studied them carefully, then announced that my right wrist is in worse shape than my left had been before he fused it. I had two options, he said. One is an artificial wrist joint that is not very durable. It might last five years. After it breaks I would have to undergo another, more difficult surgery to fuse the wrist. The other option is immediate wrist fusion, which allows for no wrist movement whatsoever.

I left his office with tears welling in my eyes. Is there no end to this deterioration? How will I manage to live, to survive another surgery?

I drove from the surgeon's office to the downtown. There was banking to do and I needed to pick up the sunglasses I had left the day before at the bakery. I was walking up Vermont Street, fighting tears, when I looked up and was amazed to see Dennis walking toward me.

When we met, he asked, "What's the matter, Darlin'?" He looked in my eyes and without another word enveloped me in his arms and held me close while I rested my head against his shoulder.

Never in my life have I needed more to be held by someone who loves me, and there he was, a blessing.

Of course I will do what must be done. There is no way out but through. His love will give me the strength to endure, just as it gave me the solace I desperately needed, standing by the library on Vermont Street last Tuesday.

Seeking A Modus Vivendi

Decades ago a news article said that Israel and the Palestinians must find a modus vivendi. I loved that term and, in spite of not having studied Latin, intuitively knew that it meant “a way of living in a difficult or intractable situation.” Somehow the term has stuck with me over the years, maybe because I associate it with the continuing Israeli-Palestinian conflict we've all grown disgusted with.

Living with rheumatoid arthritis for nearly 26 years has been a lot like the Israeli-Palestinian situation. I've watched parts of my skeleton fall apart, cartilage eaten up by inflammation and, consequently, bones coming apart -- sort of what happens to skeletal structure when a corpse decomposes. Like the Israeli building projects, rheumatoid arthritis has claimed a lot of my territory.

Small joints are especially vulnerable, producing the stereotypical rheumatoid arthritis fingers that turn sideways from the hand.  Feet are affected, too. I’ve had so many toe repairs that my feet look like they belong to two different people. Still, I can walk just fine.

My hands are almost totally shot, though. I've had four finger joint replacements; all have broken and remain in situ. The biggest problem is that both wrists have fallen apart, and there are a lot of bones in one’s wrist. Just look at a diagram of the hand. Bones everywhere!

Since arthritis struck 25 years ago I've devised many ways of doing what I want to do using defective mechanisms -- my hands. I've become adept at using tools to do what normal people do barehanded. I have a wardrobe of hand and wrist supports. But using my hands became ever more difficult.

Recently my left hand (I’m left-handed) has blown up. All the bones in my wrist have come apart. The entire hand is painfully sore and swollen. I can’t do the things I love any more. I've always been a maker of things by sewing, cooking, baking, gardening, making art, preserving food, and much more. I’ve done these things in spite of pain for so long, as if I would never have to face reality, that I am having great difficulty imagining a way of life that does not include them.

Reeling from the realization that I can no longer live as I wish to, I am seeking a modus vivendi. Wrist surgery is in my near future. How much it will enable me remains to be seen. In the meantime, achieving peace of mind is my goal.

What Does Handicapped Mean?

Does it mean that one travels in a wheelchair?

Wheelchair design by Bob The Builder

Not necessarily!

The Americans with Disabilities Act required that public buildings be accessible to handicapped persons. But Congress didn't remember the "hand" in handicapped.  Some of us can walk around just fine, but our hands, wrists, and shoulders are badly damaged. We can't open heavy doors. We can't lift a skillet, the corner of a mattress, or even a two-quart saucepan. Sliding doors are challenging and a garage door is impossible to move. We struggle to open bottles, pop tops, laundry detergent boxes, or child-proof caps.

Actually, I've noticed that even able-bodied people have difficulty with today's excessive packaging precautions. Luckily, tools are available to help with this problem.

The jar lid vise, scissors, Exacto knife, pliers, pop top lever, and wooden spoon are always close at hand in my house. The wooden spoon is perfect for levering off those plastic rings under milk carton caps. I also use the top of an old rubber glove for gripping things.

These tools are just for opening packaging. The only help for heavy lifting is the kindness of family, friends, and strangers.

RA

Life isn't all sunshine and flowers. Accidents happen. Disease strikes. Pain, loss, and suffering are part of life, too, as everyone eventually must learn.

In 1986 I learned that lesson, when severe rheumatoid arthritis struck with vengeance. Over these 24 years RA has destroyed the joints in my hands, shoulders and feet.



Surgeons have patched me up with bits of metal and plastic, but ability to do the things I love diminishes progressively. I've had to give up woodcarving, gourd art, knitting, and a host of other creative outlets.

Now, with failing wrists, I'm ready to give up sewing, one of my favorite activities since I was 12 years old, as well as most gardening. I'm hanging on to cooking, though, with the help of gadgets, tools, and Dennis, who does all the heavy lifting.

In some important ways this disease has been a gift. It has taught me humility and compassion. Priorities have become clear. My appreciation for family, friends, and Nature has deepened. And, in spite of all the loss, there is still so much I can do and much I have to be thankful for.