All my excitement over the weather in the last post was mostly for naught. We had about an hour’s worth of rain the other night. And today it’s back to being sunny, cool and beautiful.

But the nights are getting cold. There was a rime of ice on the Kia’s windshield early this morning, and the forecast for tonight is 29 degrees. Last time it got that cold overnight was in late February.

The sharp, chillsome snap in the air, along with the Japanese maple leaves that are changing to scarlet, yellow and orange outside my kitchen window, have combined to make me feel creative. Well, those along with the new cooking magazine I picked up at the grocery store yesterday. Daughter and I, while standing on line at the register, both saw the incredible-looking, three-layer chocolate cake with homemade marshmallows on top on the magazine’s cover and cried, in unison, “LOOK AT THAT CAKE!”

I bought the magazine.

Now, I’m not much of a baker. Each Christmas for the last several years I’ve made a really decadent bundt cake (super easy) and last Thanksgiving, I actually made a peach pie for the first time in my life. So this chocolate cake, while it truly does look scrumptuous and sinful, won’t get made until Christmas, either. We just aren’t big sweets-eaters around here.

But recipes for lavish chocolate cakes weren’t all that filled that magazine. There’s also a recipe for a wonderful autumn soup made with parsnips, yellow potatoes and leeks, turmeric, red pepper and toasted cumin seeds. I love Indian food. Need I say that this combination of ingredients just made my mouth water?

So in about 20 minutes, I’m making it. Steve just came home from the grocery with leeks and parsnips and potatoes. He’s offered to help me chop up the veggies, since I’m still battling frustratingly sore hands, which is sweet of him. I’ve taken a loaf of rosemary-potato artisan bread out of the freezer to go with the soup, so supper tonight should be intriguing, and, if I’m lucky, delicious. 

Thanks for dropping by. And wish me luck!

So I did it again.

I heard it was gonna rain. It was an “off” day for the gym, and I had planned to walk, but with this happy news, I decided I’d be smart to go out and sweep leaves again. That way I’d kill two birds with one stone: I’d get a nice, upper-body workout (we have a big yard) and not have to face the danger of slippery, wet leaves plastered onto the cement later.  

(An aside: We don’t have any grass. We have a long, seriously steep driveway, cement walkways, and two cement patios, front and back. The rest of our God’s two-thirds-of-an-acre is given to several gardens and a small home orchard. Anyone need pomegranates or persimmons? We have several tons…)

The “threat of rain,” as you might have figured out by now, inspires me to feats of broomy heroism in the fall. By autumn, you see, it’s been so long since I’ve seen water falling from the sky it’s like a bloody miracle. I’m not really rational about this. I absolutely love rain. I even loved it when I lived where it rained almost constantly. But here in Northern California, we’re working on the fourth year of an extended drought, and rain has taken a powder. It’s rare as hen’s teeth.

And so when I hear that rain is imminent I must take action, anticipating the miraculous event.

I spent about four hours outside yesterday, wielding my broom and, because I could hardly just pass by plants that needed serious fall pruning (I hate branches and stuff smacking me in the face as I walk along the footpath around the house), my pruning shears. From the driveway, the front walk and the back patio I swept up a huge pile of crackly dead leaves, and I did some further serious trimming-back of the wisteria and blackberry bramble that forms part of what I call our “hedgerow,” which separates our property from our neighbor’s.

The day was delightfully cool and sunny. The air smelt lovely. There was a nice breeze kicking up in advance of the cold front that was moving toward us off the Pacific. The jays were squawking at each other, and at me, and overhead extended V’s of Canada geese flew over, headed for wherever they head each fall. I was happy as could be.

And yes, my hands and wrists twinged and hurt as I worked. That’s de rigueur these days, though. No big deal. Life goes on, you know?

I swept leaves until I’d worked up a good sweat and then swept some more. About three quarters of the way through the task it occurred to me that I was getting tired. Like, seriously tired. More tired than I should have been. After all, this isn’t heavy labor. It’s bright, active work that doesn’t require brawn as much as perseverance. But I couldn’t just stop. The afternoon was sliding quickly toward evening. I needed to finish, then pick up the piles of leaves and get them into the green can for the trash-pickup next week. If the piles of leaves got wet, that was going to be a true pain in the arse.

Well, the sun was nearly down by the time I finished up. I put away the broom, the pruning shears and my pitchfork. I rolled the green can back to it’s place at the end of the drive. I shook my fist at the trees, which had dropped a few more dead leaves onto the driveway while my back was turned.

I went inside, called ahead to the local pizza joint, washed up and then took off to pick up dinner. Ate. Fell into bed.

Today I’m gimping like an old lady. I’ve got more owies than a five-year-old. But you know what? I’m proud of myself. I got this big job done in spite of rheuma and in spite of my own, natural laziness. Of course, it hasn’t rained yet today, and now the weatherguys are saying it will mostly stay north of here. But it’s overcast and it looks like it could …

Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my rheumatologist. We’re going to talk about my hands, and my feet, and how I can’t open my mouth very wide because my jaw is flared. We’re going to discuss how the rheuma seems to be ramping up and up, and how maybe the Arava and sulfasalazine aren’t quite cutting the mustard anymore. We’re going to talk about the possibilities of physical therapy. Of acupuncture. Of more efficacious pain meds. And how I’ve been exercising my body at the gym and at home, wrestling autumn leaves.

I’m looking forward to a positive and productive appointment with him. He’s a good doc. I like him. So we’ll see how it goes.

Oh – and thanks for stopping by. I love hearing from you.

I’m getting ready for my morning workout at the gym. I’m dressed in my sweatpants and t-shirt, I have my athletic socks on (sounds so jock, doesn’t it?) my feet and my hair’s up in an out-of-the-way ponytail. I’m gonns move! I’m gonna burn up the mats! Blow out the excercise machines! It’s gonna be sweat city!At this rate, I’ll be buffed in no time!

Well, yeah, but first I have to get there. My machine, my body, isn’t running real great this morning. Before I even pushed back the quilts and sat up, I was noting how I hurt here, and here, and here. Hands were all swelly. Couldn’t slip my ring over my knuckle. The bottoms of my feet felt like I’d been standing barefoot on gravel all night. I opened my eyes and gazed through the velvet dawn light at the ceiling. The cat snored softly, curled up in a ball between my neck and shoulder, warm as toast. How nice it would be, I thought, to just stay right here. Don’t move. Go back to sleep.

But it’s gym day. Yesterday afternoon I walked three miles. Could be why my feet are grumbling. And today I need to move the rest of me. Arms. Abs. Shoulders. Glutes. Deltoids. All those other muskles, each of which has a role in helping me stay mobile and, with luck, not hurt quite so much.

Phooey. I got up. Slowly. Did my thing. And here I am, sipping my first cup of coffee for the day and anticipating the coming workout without much enthusiasm.

But it came to me as I was brushing my teeth that if I don’t go, even though I’m a pile of owies this morning and that’s a good excuse for resting, I won’t like myself for caving. It will bother me all day, particularly after the morning stiffness works itself out. I could go later, sure, but I know myself too well. I won’t. So it’s go now or be a lump.

A sad, achy lump.

OK. I’m putting my shoes on. I’m grabbing my purse and car keys. I’m gimping out the door …

I’m in the reluctant process of re-learning how to accept others’ reaction to my old enemy, rheumatoid arthritis. Honestly, I’d forgotten how uncomfortable people get.

Because I’ve always been a very empathetic person, I understand others’ discomfort when confronted by my disease. Like many people with RA, I get tired of the same old responses, like “you’re too young to have that!” but considering that our culture sees RA as a disease of the elderly, I can’t really blame people for that response. When I’m in the right mood, I just inform them of the truth. When I’m not, I shift the conversation to make it about them instead. Works like a charm.

Yesterday during my morning workout one of the women there asked me how my weekend went. For some reason, I told the truth rather than trotting out the more polite and distant “just fine” response. “Not great,” I said. “I have rheumatoid arthritis. It kept me down this weekend.”

“But you’re too young!” she exclaimed. (Actually, I sort of like this response now that I’m 53. I look too young for RA? Cool!)

 “Well, that’s what I said too,” I grinned as I did reps with my legs. “I was diagnosed when I was 31. Actually, it can hit at just about any age.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. Where do you have it? In your hands? My grandmother had it in her hands.”

“My hands, my wrists, my jaw, my shoulders, hips, knees, ankles and feet. Mostly not all at once, thank goodness.”

She complimented me for working out in spite of it, so I told her that some days are better than others, and how I’d been frustrated and aggravated on Friday and Saturday because I hadn’t been able to go because of the pain.

“Does it help to exercise?”

I nodded. “It strengthens the muscles we need to move and helps keep the joints themselves from stiffening up permanently. I’ve never liked to exercise much, but I guess I’m finally mature enough to do it anyway. I’m exercising for my independence. I’m fighting against being disabled by RA.”

“I think that’s a great attitude,” she said. At that point I changed the subject and asked her how her weekend went. She told me, launching into a detailed account of what she and her family had done and where they’d gone. We talked and laughed for a while as we worked out on the machines, a couple of friendly strangers. Finally, she finished her workout, wished me well, and went on her way.

I’m aware that I was lucky in this particular instance, and I’m pleased that one more person in the world understands a little more about RA now, whether she wanted to or not. In the past when I’ve been honest and opened up about rheuma, I’ve seen people’s eyes glaze over before I’ve finished the first sentence. To spare them having to listen (when it’s obvious, at least to me, that they’d rather not), I change the subject. I can’t blame them for not wanting to listen to me whine.

But having to keep my battle with rheuma to myself hurts sometimes. It’s lonely.

Each member of my family reacts a bit differently. My daughter is empathetic, a trait I guess she got from me. And she also has RA, though it’s been mild so far and hasn’t been diagnosed as such yet. She understands the on-again, off-again, migratory nature of the pain, and how intense it can be at times. Her fiancé has had two rotator-cuff surgeries on his shoulder in the last year, so he’s also sympathetic about the pain and occasional disability it causes. My husband, however, is like most other people when it comes to my fight with RA. Most times his eyes glaze over.

I understand his reaction. He retired early several years ago because of disability caused by osteoarthritis and fibromyalgia. He’s frequently in pain, and he takes a truly stunning number of drugs to fight the physical conditions and the other problems they’ve caused, such as depression. The pain meds he takes daily have made him foggy-minded and slow. And he’s basically given up trying to maintain or improve his fitness, strength and mobility. He’s closed in on himself, obsessing over his troubles, and has become a frustrating hypochondriac. And while he’s ready to talk about his own health problems in great detail, he has very little interest in mine.

Absolutely any discomfort I mention, he has as well, only his is far worse. To be perfectly honest, my eyes glaze over, too.

What a shame, really. The result is that we both feel isolated and alone. But you know, he wasn’t always like this. He used to be a loving, caring and compassionate man, full of life and laughter. He was strong, fit and active.

Illness has changed him profoundly. So perhaps it’s time we both worked on this – we need the others’ love and support.

Because I was fortunate enough to have a decade-long remission of the disease, I’d forgotten how hard it is, sometimes, to talk about it. During that first long battle with rheuma I frequently pushed myself too hard, stressing and likely making it even worse as I tried to ignore or deny its effects and keep them to myself. But this time, as the rheuma ramps up again, I’m taking a different approach. I’m being open and honest about how I feel from day to day. I’m accepting my limitations. It’s still difficult, but I’m learning. Each day brings new revelations.

“But you’re too young!”

WoooHooooooo! Now that’s the kind of news I like.

Oh, that low, mean ache.

It’s like both my hands are nauseated.

Yesterday was not much fun. Hands were ugly-sore. My right shoulder twinged and stabbed when I moved. I’d hoped to go for my workout in the morning, but had to bow to the rheuma  dragon once again. Even driving to the gym would have hurt too much.

It was the second day in a row. My hands had been bad on Friday, too, so that day I took a two-mile walk in lieu of my whole-body workout. It felt good. I’d outfoxed the RA dragon. Oh, was I clever!

But I had to concede defeat yesterday. I didn’t berate myself for it (much). After all, I told myself, I’d been busy and productive in spite of the beast for almost two weeks. I’d just take a good rest. So there!

I was pleasantly surprised when I found, as I got out of bed this morning, that my shoulder was once again pain-free and my hands only ached a little bit. In spite of not sleeping very well! I got dressed, trying not to let myself get too excited. But hey, the longer I was up, the better I felt. I started making plans for the day: grocery shopping, some work in the garden (including more leaf sweeping), housework. Strip the beds, do laundry. Carpets need vacuuming and the floors swept. Bathrooms need blowtorched. And when all that was done, I’d put on my walking shoes and set off on another two-mile walk as a reward.

There was a time when a long walk would have seemed like a tedious chore, not a reward. It’s the small things I’m grateful for, you know?

I made breakfast sandwiches for myself and my daughter, Cary, who works on Sundays. It was while I was cooking the egg for the second sandwich that the ache in my right hand suddenly intensified. No warning.

I yelped and swore. It always helps, at least mentally.

I finished making breakfast. The ache persisted. It ramped up. I washed up the dishes using the hottest water I could stand, letting it stream over my hands.

And now it’s nearly mid-day. What I can do is limited. I can type as long as I rest my hands every couple of sentences (and cuss under my breath). I can’t lift the electric kettle to pour hot water for tea, though. Hubby had to do that for me. I can’t open the fridge. Hubby tied a dishtowel around the handle, looped so I can slip my hand through and pull the door open with my arm.

He forgot to do one for the freezer handle. I can’t open it, either, but he’s off to get a couple of quarts of goat milk from a local farm and run a few other errands. I’ll ask him later. I don’ t need anything out of the freezer right now, anyway.

With rheumatoid arthritis you never know what to expect. One of the more frustrating and aggravating aspects of the disease is its sheer unpredictability. One day – one hour, even – you’ll be feeling just fine. The next, not so much. One day – or minute – the pain will be merely an annoyance, a persistent, sharp-toothed rat nibbling on the edges of your consciousness. The next, the rat has turned into a hyena with steel jaws and a sledgehammer.

All utterly invisible, of course. If you’re not careful, people will think you’re being a bit melodramatic. Even slightly nuts.

Still, I’m not in a truly dark mood. To stave that off, I’m forcing myself to look at the bright side. My shoulder IS good today. I can walk without pain, so I’m looking forward to hitting the El Dorado Trail late this afternoon with Cary. The weather is gorgeous – mid-70s, breezy and sunny. Perfect for another two-mile tramp. The crackly dead leaves will still be scattered all over the patio tomorrow (along with about a ton more). Meh. They can wait. So can the housework. I’ve got a couple more days before the mess is so bad that the Housework Police will threaten to shut us down. Until then, we’ll get by.

As soon as I’m finished writing this, I’m going to go dip my hands in hot paraffin, close my eyes and meditate while the warmth soothes their nagging belly-aches. Then I’ll have a nap.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

I’m no St. George but
I’m hunting my old dragon
just the same.

Known long as Rheuma
he’s wily-strong with blunt fangs of dull steel.

Rheuma sneaks unseen
from behind grocery carts
and dogwoods.

With malice he slinks
from beneath my bed to curl
in my joints.

Clad in Arava
bristle-armed with quiet anger
I push on.

Rheuma waits for me
crouched, radiating misery
his bite swift.

He lunges at me
sinks his teeth into my hip
and clamps down.

But today my sword
swings, slices Rheuma deep and
wyrm-blood flows.

Dragon and I
retreat to our lairs overwhelmed
pained and tired.

I’m no St. George and
my dragon will never die
but I’m brave.

RA Guy put up a post today about his recent, two-week-long battle with truly awful rheumatoid arthritis pain. Like most of us who have the disease, I understand and empathize with him as he writes about it, particularly the shoulder pain. I’ve been there. My shoulders were often the site of rheuma attacks. (Not so much now, at least not yet. Fingers are crossed …)

Guy wrote clearly and descriptively about the pain, but he also writes about how he coped, both physically and mentally.

Toward the end of the two weeks his doctor offered him sleeping tablets. Guy writes about how he’s always been reluctant to take sleeping aids (and with reason). This time, he took them – but just half-doses. As a result, he was able to get several longish, uninterrupted stretches of sleep over a period of a few days. Not full nights of sleep, but a lot more than he’d been getting.

Now, and for the last two days, he’s feeling much, much better. The pain, while not “gone,” is mild and bearable. He’s on a “streak,” he says.

During the initial, dreadfully painful years after I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, I did a lot of thinking about it and what might be done to relieve the flares of pain. I knew for a fact that when I was able to sleep deeply, and without waking, for a good stretch of hours, I generally felt better. My body needed that rest. More, my mind needed it.

The late Dr. James Herriot, the British veterinarian who wrote about caring for the animals and people of his beloved Yorkshire Dales in the 1930s, wrote a chapter in one of his books about a little dog. As I remember it, the dog had been grievously injured; Herriot patched the little guy up, setting his broken bones and stitching his wounds. He was pleased with himself – the job had looked impossible at the start, but after hours of concentrated perseverance, he’d succeeded. The little dog would live and, once healed, be almost as good as new.

But the little guy didn’t recover well. He was in terrible pain. He was dying in spite of the vet’s dedicated work. Herriot wrote frequently about how animals experienced and coped with pain, at least as he perceived it. He felt that because animals couldn’t really understand why they were hurting or what it was that was hurting them, serious pain frightened them. They were unable to flee this particular threat, and the constant flow of adrenaline exhausted and weakened them.

He looked into the little dog’s eyes and saw abject suffering and terror. He’d given the animal the usual dose of painkilling medication, but it wasn’t enough. The trouble was, a larger dose would kill the dog. But if it continued to suffer this way, its own terror would certainly kill it anyway.

Herriot was flummoxed. That night he got into his books. He read and read. It bothered him deeply that the dog was suffering like it was – and he knew if he could just get it through the next few days, it would heal enough to cope.

So he took a huge risk and injected the dog with a drug that would put it to sleep. Too much, and it would die. Too little, and it would do no good. With his heart in his throat, he took the little animal to the very brink of death, and monitoring it closely, kept it there for several days, letting it sleep and sleep and sleep.

Herriot’s theory was that if the dog was sleeping and unconscious, it wouldn’t be feeling the pain of its injuries, and thus would also not be in a constant, silent state of sheer terror. In sleep, its body – and mind – could rest and heal. He wasn’t sure if it would work. He’d never heard of anyone trying this before, and of course the risk of accidentally killing the dog was ever present.

To his relief, it worked. When he stopped injecting the sleeping drug, the little dog woke up. It was still in some pain, but now the painkiller he gave it, in safe doses, was enough to keep it comfortable. The animal lived – and to Herriot’s delight, it healed and went on to live an active long life, bringing great daily joy to its elderly owners.

A happy ending.

When I’m experiencing a bad flare – and these can often last days and days – sleep is hard to get. The pain wakes me over and over in the night, and it takes a long time to find a comfortable position and get back to sleep. Sometimes I can’t. So on top of the pain and its attendant fatigue, I’m sleep deprived. Exhausted.

I’ve often remembered that story about James Herriot and the little dog he saved by helping it sleep, and I’ve wondered how such a treatment would work for humans. Then I shake my head. There’s no way a doctor would risk the life of a human being that way; certainly not the life of someone who has chronic, debilitating pain but is otherwise healthy.

I understand the stance of the healer, but at the same time, I’m frustrated. Pain starts a vicious but instinctual cycle going. Pain makes us anxious – we want to “get away from it,” but we can’t. That anxiety makes us tense. Our muscles tighten up. We breathe faster, more shallowly. And that increases the pain, which makes us more anxious … and so on and on.

Narcotic painkillers interrupt that cycle to a great degree. So do other pain medications and techniques, like electrotherapy, ultrasound therapy and acupuncture. But I wonder, particularly after reading RA Guy’s post this morning, if simple, deep, uninterrupted sleep wouldn’t work just as well. Sleep that would give our minds a rest along with our bodies. Sleep deep enough that, when we woke up, we’d be rested and stronger, perhaps more able to cope.

Unlike injured or sick animals, we pretty much know why we hurt. Unfortunately, that knowledge isn’t always enough to help us avoid that awful cycle of pain-anxiety-more pain. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could simply sleep through it?

I felt way too good yesterday.

It was beautiful outside. Mid-60s, sunny, a hint of woodsmoke spicing the cool fall air. I spent the morning indoors, busy with my laptop, but after lunch I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to get outside. I had to move.

The wind-and-rain storms that blew through a few days back knocked down scads of dead leaves. So out I went, thinking I’d sweep and rake the fallen leaves off the patio and do a general “neatening up” out there while the weather was still mild and gentle.

 And it was lovely. I got started on the sweeping, but decided that since it was so nice, I should go ahead and prune back the wild wisteria, grapevine and blackberry bramble growth that took place during the summer. The combination was closing in, once again, on the path along the back of the house. I found my pruners and got busy.

An hour later, I had piles of prunings dotting the path behind me. Much raking ensued. The resulting pile was so large, raking the whole thing to the patio seemed like a lot more work than I wanted to do. So I went in search of our old yard cart — a sort of super-wheelbarrow. I found it on the back-40, full of pots with soil in them. Husband had meant to do something with them, but had forgotten to carry on with the “something.” I emptied the cart and rolled it back into civilized territory, found a pitchfork, and started filling the cart with prunings.

Still feeling great, enjoying the sun and the light breeze, I wheeled the big, green, yard-waste can around and filled it from the yard cart, using the pitchfork to stuff everything down. I still had that sweeping to do, but my, the path looked nicer!

It was as I was sweeping the steep driveway – yes, the original idea was just to sweep the patio, but I was feeling so good! – that the rheuma caught up with me. Suddenly I was completely exhausted. My feet started aching. My hands were twinging angrily. My right knee got creaky and shot painful bolts up and down my leg as I moved. But I kept on. The sun was westering. The Stellar’s jays were shouting back and forth to each other in the trees, settling down for the night. I wanted to finish the job I’d set out to do.

And I did. When I finished, the back and front of the house looked great. The leaves were raked and in the yard-waste can. But oh, was I gimping. Along with the rheuma, muscles all over my body had abruptly started griping about the unaccustomed exercise I’d put them through at Curves the previous morning. Shuffling my feet now, I put the brooms, rake and pitchfork away, rolled the yard cart out of the way but handy for the next job, and went inside. Took a long, long hot shower. Climbed into my jammies, robe and slippers.

Son-to-be Matt grilled a tri-tip for dinner, so I didn’t have to cook. A good thing, too, because I was all done in. I ate a little, read for a while, then dragged my sorry self off to bed. Slept like the dead in spite of the aches.

And then I got up this morning, early, and went to Curves again for another workout. I think I’m just going to refer to Curves as “the gym” because somehow “Curves” sounds all wishy-washy and pinky-frilly-girly to me. Well, OK, it’s girly, but dang, it’s not wishy-washy. A half-hour on those exercise machines, running in place between each one, and believe me, you work up a sweat – particularly if you’re in the sad physical shape I am. I weigh a lot less than I did at this time last year, but wow, I’m flabby. I know if I’m patient, going to “the gym” three or four times a week will get rid of most of that.

I did the workout, in spite of hands that were yelling at me. In spite of sore muscles and a twingy, aggravated right knee. Despite my rheuma-sore feet. I did it, but when I got home and showered again this morning, that was it. In the midst of all that raking and pruning yesterday, I’d been entertaining the idea of cleaning up the other side of the house today.  Clearly, I was a bit over-ambitious. Because lemme tell you, I am just flattened today. I took a three-hour nap this afternoon. Three hours! And while I did make chicken soup for dinner tonight, I enlisted hubby to chop the vegetables for me. Fortunately, he likes to play with his chef’s knife. 

 I love days like yesterday, when I’m so full of energy I feel unstoppable, when the pain from the rheuma is only a whisper and therefore ignorable. Yes, I paid for working and playing so hard, but you know? It was absolutely worth it.

I’m hoping to get busy on the rest of the yard this weekend.