“There is more right with you than there is wrong with you.”*

Sometimes I’m astonished by the deep wisdom I encounter when I read blogs written by people who have RA. Sometimes their words catch me with such suddenness that my jaw drops and I have to remember to breathe.

Lene Andersen is one of those bloggers. She’s the writer of the blog, The Seated View; her most recent guest-post at RA Central, “Staying Sane” is one of those jaw-droppers. In it, she writes about the pain and disability of rheumatoid arthritis: its capriciousness and relentlessness; its ability to stop us dead in the tracks of our lives; its effect on our emotions; and the terrible way it can send us to a dark place in our minds that makes our lives seem utterly worthless and worse, hopeless.

Yes, oh yes, I thought as I read the post. Lene’s RA is many fathoms worse than my own, but I know down to my toes of that which she writes. And like all of us, I live with the gnawing, low-grade fear that I, too, might one day be permanently disabled and sidelined by this disease. Lene writes:

“[T]his is what happens to you when you live in the equivalent of a disaster area, a situation where you never know if the sky is going to fall. The unpredictability of daily life with RA makes it really hard to look at the bright side of life.”

Amen, sister, I thought.

And then, without warning, she turns the course of the post around. Listen up: We absolutely must fight this RA-provoked descent into the dark.

“It sometimes takes a while, sometimes requires mental acrobatics worthy of a performer from Cirque du Soleil and every now and again, the grain of hope, of positive, of maybe that I find is logically ridiculous, a tortured Pollyanna moment, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is to find it, because it is that first step out, the first step to remembering that there is help out there, that you are not doomed, that you are not alone and that there is more than RA to your life.”

Amen, sister, again. I often feel like that tortured Pollyanna as I fight to put a positive spin on my RA. But the alternative is a terrible, tragic way to live.

Please take a few minutes and read Lene’s post at RA Central, and follow the links she embedded in the text, too. What she says there may give you the tools you need to get through this moment, this day, this month – this life – with joy instead of despair.

“RA doesn’t change who we are, it just changes how we do things,” writes Lene. And she is so right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Yes, here I am, back again – and with almost the full use of my right hand restored. Talk about positive!

The hand surgeon was delighted, yesterday afternoon, with the way my dog bite wounds are healing.  He felt that the new wrist pain I was experiencing was directly due to my RA and the fact that my hand had been splinted for several days, held stiff in one position. And indeed, I thought so, too. It did feel more like a flare than anything else. The good doc removed the splint and, after a close inspection, re-dressed the wounds in much lighter bandaging without it and told me to get busy moving my swollen fingers. I was, and am, delighted. And as you can see, I’m following my doctor’s orders.

Unfortunately, the results of the blood culture had not come back for some reason. He was puzzled, said he’d check into the situation, and that he’d get back to me as soon as he had some information. Though he didn’t say – he was noncommittal, as doctors can be when they aren’t sure – that my rapid healing means no blood infection, I am feeling very well. No fever. No malaise. And even the wrist flare, which was pretty nasty last night, is a mere shadow of itself this morning.

Instinct tells me that my blood is clean and healthy. Nevertheless, I’m hoping to have it confirmed today.

Now, I’m off for another soaking session. I don’t mind. It gives me a good excuse to stop everything and read Neil Gaiman’s “Anansi Boys” on my Kindle for 20 minutes. Complain? Not me.

*Jon Kabat-Zinn, founder of the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at the University of Massachusetts Medical School.

You know, I’m not too bad at this southpaw business, even though I was born a righty.

Yesterday, following an appointment with my PCP, long ago scheduled (she was VERY excited and concerned about my injured hand – made me unwrap it so she could see, lectured me about following the hand surgeon’s orders precisely, told me to eat with extra attention to my nutrition and to avoid sugar in all its forms, and even prescribed lacto-bacillus capsules to help keep my gut properly fauna-ed while I’m taking the powerhouse antibiotics – so I guess maybe she gets a little bored with the regular parade of middle-aged vets with metabolic syndrome through her clinic), Mr Wren took me to lunch. As we were eating he commented that he was surprised how well I was handling my fork with my left hand. In fact, he said, he thought I was doing well with everything else left-handed, too, including my own wound care and rewrapping my hand after each soak. He’d thought I’d need a lot more help.

He seemed a little disappointed, so I made sure I asked for his assistance more for the rest of the day. He walked and entertained Finny for me (no awful task, that, as Fin induces spontaneous laughter), made me my two cups of coffee after the dinner Matt and Cary prepared, filled the soak-basin for me, and helped me get my shirt off at bedtime). I think he felt better after that. Sweet man.

Except for typing with irksome slowness, I’m doing well.

I was thinking about it this morning. And I realized, suddenly, that the reason doing things left-handed isn’t real tough for me is because I’ve had practice.

Twenty-two-plus years of RA that frequently attacks my fingers and wrists. A long-ago right-wrist ganglion cyst removal and a much more recent right wrist synovectomy that left me in a soft cast and splint for three weeks, and a long zig-zag scar. My poor old right hand has really been through the wringer!

All of these turned me into a southpaw, at least temporarily. The RA flares were (and are again) frequent. So it’s no wonder, really, that I’m carrying on pretty well with my “dumb” hand.

That said, trying to shave both legs left-handed in the shower this morning (so I could wear my new, smaller-me capris!) was a study in ludicrous clumsiness. Good thing I’d done the post-winter forest-shave last week, before the bite. And even a bigger good thing is a razor that doesn’t slice skin as easily as the old, single-blade kind used to.

Clipping the leash onto a wriggling Finny’s collar has frequently ended with me having to ask the nearest human to do it for me.

Opening pill bottles has flummoxed me several times, and someone always has to carry the full soak-basin to my soaking spot for me, or I’d end up having to stand next to the kitchen sink to soak my hand each time. It could be worse, of course, but staring at dirty dishes and the wolf-spider that somehow fell into the sink for 20 long minutes is pretty boring.

*~*~*~*

Now I’m tiring out a bit, so I’ll get to the update on my hand. The wounds themselves are healing nicely. Perhaps too nicely, as the surgeon wants them kept open so they can drain (shudders) and the infecting bacteria can escape. I’ve done my best to poke the wicking material deep into them with each dressing change, but I’m afraid I didn’t get it deep enough. Still, the swelly, dark red areas have reduced quite a lot. My index, middle and ring fingers are still pretty swollen and red, though, and I woke this morning with a lot of pain in my wrist. I’m hoping that’s just (!) a rheuma flare, and not some new issue popping up from the dog bite.

My temperature continues to fluctuate between normal and 100. Bod’s still fighting that infection, I think – and it’s winning. Overall, I’m feeling mostly well.

I see the hand surgeon again this afternoon. I hope he likes what he sees and won’t feel compelled to reopen the wounds for continued drainage (owowowowowow!). And I hope to hear that there’s no blood infection, as that will keep me from becoming a hospital cot inmate connected to an IV for a week. Ugh.

Thank you all again for your supportive comments and well-wishes. Keep your fingers crossed for me so I can come home after my appointment today, please?

And I hope this finds all of you feeling well and enjoying a day full of love and laughter.

Hi all — first, THANK YOU for all your kind, caring comments and emails. It’s so comforting to know that people care so much. I’m really touched. You’re all such good friends — and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

Home care on these dogbite wounds is proving a challenge, but one I’m up to, with a little help from the family. We’re in a sort of limbo right now, waiting for the blood cultures to grow (or not, hopefully) and for continued improvement in the healing process. I’ve no fever any longer, and I’m feeling good. The pain is minimal; don’t even need much in the way of pain meds now. So I think I’m on a good track, here, barring setbacks.

Logan is under county quarantine here at home — the county requires a ten-day quarantine to rule out the tiny possibility of rabies, even though he’s current on his vaccinations. We’re trying to make these days as peaceful and happy as we can for him. In spite of Logan’s longtime strangeness, he’s been a dear friend and a Good Dog throughout his life, trying SO hard to do everything right. I’m determined that we do everything right for him, too. He’s had a good, long run.

I’ll post again with updates as I can, but honestly, one-handed typing is WAY overrated.

Thanks again, friends.

This morning I was trying to think of what to write about and couldn’t. Life was looking pretty boring. Nothing ever happens around here, I thought.

Then someone knocked on the door. Our old dog, Logan, yodeled (as usual) and headed for it, barking and snarling. I was close behind him.

“Logan, IN,” I ordered, indicating the laundry room. He always goes in, I shut him in securely, and then greet the visitor. But Logan ignored me this time. So I said it again, louder, and this time I grabbed for his collar.

The moment he felt my hand on his neck, he whipped around and bit me. Hard. Blood flew. Then he headed for the laundry room; he knew he’d blown it. I got the door closed and yelled for Cary to get the door while I took my spurting right hand to the kitchen sink.

Blood everywhere. Who knew so much could come out of a hand? I finally got the bleeding stopped with a handful of paper towels and pressure, then looked at the damage. A deep, ripped puncture on top of my hand above the knuckles and another one, also mangled, in the palm. Cary found some gauze and tape, put my shoes and socks on for me (now that’s a cool-headed daughter!) and drove me down the mountain to the VA Med Center ER.

This was all just around noon. Now it’s after 7 p.m. and we’re finally home. Xrays showed no bones broken (I didn’t think there were), and after soaking my hand in Betadine solution for an hour or so, and a toradol shot in the butt to take the pain down a few degrees, the doc looked at it and decided no stitches, but had the nurse put on a pressure bandage and sent me home with instructions to return on Monday so he can look at it again. He’s referring me to orthopedics, concerned about the tendons, but I guess we’ll see what happens on Monday.

My hand hurts. Doesn’t work real well at the moment. And I’m heartbroken,because this is likely the end for Logan. He’s been a tricky dog since he was a puppy, and started showing fear aggression when we took him for puppy kindergarten. He was fine with us, but simply couldn’t tolerate other people. And so, for 13 years now we’ve kept him close, never allowed him around visitors, and wondered if we’d ever get to take a vacation (he can’t be boarded).

Three years ago, he was outside with me in the daytime, a snow day. No one around, and Logan loves bouncing around in the snow. I went up the drive to get the mail, and as I did, our neighbor pulled up in his pickup and got out to check his box. We were laughing about the foot of snow – and Logan came out of nowhere and bit him on the leg. He was already headed back down the driveway by the time I – and Marc – realized what had happened.

Marc wasn’t badly hurt – just a tiny puncture – but it ended up causing a blood infection. Logan was quarantined at home for 10 days by the county, and eventually we were sued. Our homeowners insurance covered the settlement, but I felt awful about Marc (he’s just fine now, thank goodness). That was the end of Logan being outside without leash or fence, even on snowy afternoons in the middle of the work-week.

Mr Wren and I talked about having him put to sleep then. But we were too soft hearted. This dog has always been just fine around us; we just had to be far more careful. And we were.

And then this happened today.

I know that Logan’s eyes aren’t so good anymore. And there’ve been a few times, lately, when he’s growled at me or one of the other members of the family in an inappropriate moment. I’m not sure why he bit me today – perhaps I startled him when I touched him – but I just can’t see how we can ignore this. We’ll probably be hearing from the county again, as all dog bites that are seen by doctors are reported as a matter of public safety. The old guy has had all his shots, so that’s not a worry.

But this time … Aw, my poor old dog.

It’s 8:30 a.m. as I write this. Finny and I got up and went for our walk this morning. We did two more miles, and it took us about 45 minutes. Now, I know that’s not very fast. All the stuff I read about walking for exercise is that you need to walk fast. Four miles an hour, at least. Get that heart pumping. Heh.

Well, I’ll get there. Today, I even jogged a little. A hundred steps, then I walked and caught my breath, then another hundred. And so on. I was still ridiculously slow, but … I jogged. And it felt good.

I’m not telling you this to brag – it’s hardly bragging material. When I jog the whole two miles, then I’ll brag. But I’m pleased and I wanted to share my triumph over my lazy self.

I like the early morning. As summer approaches and descends, it will be just about the only time of the day I’ll be able to get up enough gumption to go walking at all, as I’m one of those people who wants to curl up in a cool, indoor corner when it’s hot outside. Heat makes me sleepy and sluggish and cranky. And I don’t look good in shorts and sleeveless shirts anymore. Uncovering my blumphiness in public embarrasses me.

So as I contemplated my continuing effort to move my butt yesterday, I decided I’d better go for an early start and try to make it a habit. I went to bed earlier than I usually do last night – and I set my alarm to go off at the crack of dawn.

Why, I wonder, do I need to spend so much time talking myself into this fitness thing? I know for a fact that it’s nothing but good for me, and I feel good mentally and physically when I do it. I’m not competing with anyone. If I don’t take a long walk, the only one I’ll disappoint is Finny, since the little guy is always up for a good walk – and he can’t go without me. Maybe it goes back to my childhood, when I was just about the most un-athletic child on the face of the Earth. I loved to play – and that included running and jumping, roller skating and biking – but I hated PE in school, where there were always kids who ran faster and jumped higher, and who did just about everything better than I could when it had anything to do with structured outdoor games and athletic skills.

Of course, I could read a lot better than a lot of those kids. And I could draw better than any of them. And man, I could leave them in my imaginary dust when it came to telling stories.

Somehow that didn’t count when it was time for me to catch a softball. Or to hit one.

Anyway, two miles seems about right for me, for now. I’m tired by the end and ready to stop. As a result of shortening the distance I walked, I was only slightly muscle-sore this morning, and there was none of that weird joint looseness. So I’m good with it. But I’ll add more distance as the weeks pass, and I know I’ll get faster. It’s completely doable.

You know, being a goody-two-shoes about food and exercise can be a real downer.

Yes, today I’m gonna rant a little. And yes, I know the solution to the problem I’m having, but I’m feeling childish today and I don’t wanna do it. If stomping my feet would help any, I’d be stomping my way to China.

Here’s the deal. I know for a fact that eating mindfully works. This means, for me, eating foods that are un-processed (or only lightly so); eating them as fresh as I reasonably can; eating more of some foods than others, like fresh veggies and fruits vs. bread, dairy and meat; controlling the portions I put on my plate; and avoiding sugar in its many forms. This will cause me to lose weight slowly – and in a healthy, easily-maintainable way.

As you know, a couple of weeks ago I reverted back to eating mindfully after allowing myself to indulge over the holidays – and for several months after. I also gritted my teeth and weighed myself. I hate the scale. I’d much rather gauge my weight by the way my clothes fit, and yes, they were getting tight again so I knew I’d gained. Still, I stood on that blasted scale. I figured I’d best be honest with myself, face up to the poundage-truth, and get back on the wagon. And so I did.

I also grabbed wee Finny McCool and started walking again.

After a week or so of careful eating and some rambling along the trail, I was gratified to see, via the scale, that I’d dropped four pounds. Well! I was delighted! But I’d overdone the mileage, and spent four days feeling like my hip joints were disconnected, a rather scary situation. I took a walking break. Then the weather turned cold, wet and windy, so it was easy to rationalize not doing any more. When the sun came back out, I took one shorter walk (two miles) and then … it snowed, rained and sleeted for three days.

I haven’t walked since. Poor Finny.

Still, it was so nice to see that lower number on the scale that, despite myself, I started weighing in every day. I wanted to see those numbers dropping.

Big mistake. Since that initial four-pound loss, I’ve been up three, down two, up two, down three and today, up two pounds again. To make myself feel a little better, I tell myself that at least I’m not actually gaining even more weight. I’m basically in a holding pattern.

The scale is not my friend. I’ve learned that I’m much better off, emotionally, weighing just once a week. Or less. The reason is that our bodies fight weight loss, instinctively trying to hang on to every bit of extra fat to avoid starvation (even though we certainly aren’t starving to death). Women tend to retain water weight, too, and that skews the numbers. Weighing less frequently is a much more accurate way to keep tabs on what’s actually happening.

The good news is that my pants aren’t as tight as they were when I started. There’s a little more space on my lap for Finny, who likes sacking out on it in the evenings. (He really is a Velcro-dog.) I feel better overall, even though I’ve failed the initial exercise test – cutting the pizza, the cheese or PB&J sandwiches, the French bread and handfuls of tortilla chips out of my diet have made a real difference. When Matt’s parents were over on Sunday night for dinner, I didn’t eat the big, lucious baked potato that was part of the meal and instead ate a larger helping of fresh green beans. I did eat a slice of cake and a spritz of whipped cream, but it was a much smaller one than I would have liked.

It’s very easy, when the scale shows little progress, to get discouraged. Why eat so danged carefully when there’s no reward? What’s the point? I could be enjoying regular, made-with-white-flour pasta rather than the whole-grain kind. Sure, the latter tastes just fine once you get used to it, but mmmmmm regular pasta is so much more comforting. I could chow down on white garlic bread rather than small slices of dense, chewy whole-grain bread. I could … well, you get the gist.

Yes, I could. And yes, I’d gain poundage. I’d have to buy fat clothes again. (horrors!)I know for a fact that my body doesn’t process those bad carbs well any more (if it ever did). The excess sugar they convert to upon digestion overwhelms my system and upsets my body’s ability to use it efficiently. That sugar turns to fat and I move slowly but surely toward diabetes, increased obesity and inevitable ill-health.

And with rheumatoid arthritis being, once again, a daily obstacle, giving up on myself will only make me even more miserable. Is eating pizza worth it? I vote no.

So yes, I’m going to keep on working at this eating-mindfully-and-exercising-daily thing. Sure, I’m going to grumble. Occasionally I’m gonna throw a tantrum, like I did a couple of hours ago when that bloody scale said my four-pound loss shrank to a two-pound loss overnight. And yes, occasionally I’ll fall off the wagon, like I did last night when I ate two helpings of cheese-stuffed ravioli – the white pasta kind – for dinner. Couldn’t hurt, right? I’d been good all day …

Sigh. Gotta stop that – or pay the piper.

The sun is out today. It’s nice out there. Not too cold, not yet hot. Finny is gazing at me with that “let’s go walkies!” look in his big brown eyes. Time to get off my behind and hit the trail again.

Update: Fin McCool and I walked two miles today. It was lovely out — flowers blooming everywhere, warm in the sun, cool in the shade — and the walk was just long enough. I’m a bit tired now, but feeling good, and also feeling that I surely can do this again tomorrow. And the next day …

Just a few days ago, there was this ...

Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today? Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.

– B. Olatunji

... and today, this.

One day at a time–this is enough. Do not look back and grieve over the past for it is gone; and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come. Live in the present, and make it so beautiful it will be worth remembering.

– Author Unknown

The sun is out, sharpening the mind ...

Limitations live only in our minds. But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.

– Jamie Paolinetti

What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity. These are but trifles, to be sure; but, scattered along life’s pathway, the good they do is inconceivable.

– Joseph Addison

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.

– Melody Beattie

Look at everything as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time.
– Betty Smith
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I’ll try again tomorrow.

– Mary Anne Radmacher

The first peony of the season blooms in the shade beneath the kitchen window ...

Tough and funny and a little bit kind:  that is as near to perfection as a human being can be.

– Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic’s Notebook, 1966

God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it’s me.

– Author unknown, variation of an excerpt from “The Serenity Prayer” by Reinhold Neibuhr

Toss your dashed hopes not into a trash bin but into a drawer where you are likely to rummage some bright morning.

– Robert Brault

... and there is industry tucked into beauty everywhere I look.

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it…. People think pleasing God is all God care about.  But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.

-Alice Walker,The Color Purple, 1982

Nature gave men two ends – one to sit on and one to think with.  Ever since then man’s success or failure has been dependent on the one he used most.

– George R. Kirkpatrick

And today, as a surprise, a purple iris blooms in an unexpected place.