Month: September 2015

Just Beet It (May 28, 2014)

Becky Sarwate1 Comment

I get a lot of my writing done these days in the wee hours of the morning, before most of the living world is awake. This in an incredible paradigm shift, surprising no one more than myself. Family members and former lovers can confirm that I am not, to understate the truth, so much a traditional early bird as a snarling, crabby, slow moving lady bear. Yet things are changing, in ways both large and small. And the bulk of these alterations stem from the unlikeliest and bitterest tasting of sources – raw, organic beet juice.

The root vegetable’s two most important effects: generating hope where once there was none and in tandem, reducing a vicious and aggressive case of pompholyx eczema to a nearly asymptomatic state. Over the course of a year, I sat helplessly and depressingly by as the initial outbreak grew, taking over the palm of both hands, the sensitive areas between thumb and pointer finger, the lower parts of each digit and in the case of my right hand, the tiny, heated, pus-filled blisters crawled across the back. No expensive, side-effect inducing medication could slow the progression. Twice daily topical steroid applications beat back current blisters, but did nothing to address the underlying condition. The ‘roids became less effective and necessitated breaks during which the growth became more bellicose. An endless, demoralizing cycle. And who’s to say what the long-term affects of the steroid administration could be on the rest of my body?

This morning I sit typing, looking at two hands that are in the best state they’ve enjoyed since early May 2013, when two little blisters were mistaken for a boxing glove-induced fungal infection. Beet juice. I am an avowed nonbeliever but for lack of more appropriate verbiage, it’s a miracle. 20 ounces per day. I try to eat right and make sensible choices to support absorption (the occasional doughnut or chicken wing aside) of whatever juice property it is that communicates with my skin, telling it the battle is over. The attacks are extraneous. The waste emanating from my body has turned a flaming shade of crimson and I am constantly wiping up small, blood red spills from tables, desks and nightstands. The bitter flavor of the juice will never create a palette sensation, but I have learned to love the harsh elixir. It is life in a cup.

I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog, a fan of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. I’m living one such tale, fortunate to be able to watch the plot unfold in real time. Not six weeks ago, the dermatological team supporting my treatment offered a last ditch nuclear pharmaceutical option. For $1800, I could sign away three years of reproductive health for a medication guaranteed to hang around my system causing birth defects, if indeed childbirth were on my mind (it’s not). I couldn’t help but wonder, if the pills could destroy a mythical baby, what would they do to the rest of me? The list of potential side effects was as long as the Dead Sea parchments, detailing the risks of everything from suicide to liver failure. It was explained to me that I had no other recourse. This was the end of the line and if the medication failed, I’d best start preparing for disability and shopping around for one of those voice recognition typing programs.

But before I could raise the funds to fill the prescription, before I recruited my sister to spend the first night with me in case I should have a volatile reaction to the medication, an angel appeared in the snarky, adorable form of my childhood friend Jessica. “Try my juice cleanse” this cherub said.

There are no forms to sign before consuming beet juice. No risky side effects unless you consider soft skin, clear eyes, hydration and better quality sleep a liability. It’s not just the beets of course. I’ve reduced alcohol consumption to almost nothing, have returned to exercising the way I once did (hello again yoga and bike riding – previously too painful for my hands), drink other raw, organic juices of varying colors and eat lighter and healthier. It’s a funny thing. It’s difficult to understand how poorly we treat ourselves with food and beverage consumption and how challenging modern society makes it to take another road….until the stark reality of it all sort of falls into your lap.

And that’s it. So many expensive, complicated chemical solutions were tried and discarded but it it’s plain old nature that’s returned my life. There’s a lot of logistical planning and thought involved. No more cramming the nearest available food-like product into my maw and calling it a meal. But I’m coming back, healthier than ever. I’m giving myself a round of applause for the daily commitment it’s taking to heal – because, awesomely, it no longer hurts to do so.

On the Road Again (May 25, 2014)

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On election day 2012, I ran a yellow light in the rain at a six corner Chicago intersection where three busy streets converge. I got the business end of a giant SUV for the recklessness, not to mention the complete inability to enjoy Karl Rove’s Fox News meltdown. I had bounced off the pavement and broken my tailbone and sacrum. The tailbone was in a particularly bad way.

I spent the next three solid months on Tramadol, a strong painkiller, just to get through the necessities of life. During business hours I whimpered through and tried to stand as often as possible. I did a lot of wall leaning in meetings. It made me look authoritative. The drugs were blissfully effective – too much so for the office.

For nine months I sat on this soft black doughnut cushion that doubled as an excellent commuter train pillow. When I accidentally left her in Salt Lake City, I decided it was time to try sitting naturally again. However, it was only the beginning of this calendar year that I could resume Pilates or sit on a CTA train without leaning to the side. And I wasn’t the only injured party.

Poor L’il Red. Not only had she suffered a popped tire, bent wheel, busted brake hinge and misaligned handle bars, but she’d also been the victim of my neglect. I daresay scorn. As I have told several friends, my attitude toward Red after the smash up was similar to that of Daniel LaRusso after Johnny and the other Cobra Kai douchebags ran him off the road with their motorcycles. In the immediate aftermath of scraping myself off the pavement, I was ready to toss my girl into the dumpster. For 18 months, she sat behind the couch collecting dust.

But as you may have heard, Chicago is emerging from a painful and cruel winter even measured against its own diabolical standards. And my keister is feeling better. I also have eczema tamed well enough (thank you raw, organic beet juice!) to contemplate holding the handlebars again. So it was time to take Baby out of the corner, put the blame for the incident where it really belongs (on me) and get her the required medical attention.

Two weeks and $110 later, I walked a little over a mile in anticipation of a reunion with a clean, rehabbed Red. I had not ridden a bike for awhile. Last Fall I took a spin class with my little sister during a weekend in Wisconsin and I mostly did the whole thing standing. And I admit to being a little afraid to get back on the road again. I had already resolved that henceforth I’d confine cycling as much as possible to the safer lakefront area, rather than the city streets. I’ve had one incident too many, the last only being the most extreme in a fairly regular series. But to get L’il Red back home from the shop, the roads were the only option.

I started by strolling her to the corner of the nearest intersection and waiting for the pedestrian walk signal. I like to think I am capable of learning. As I took those first tentative few pedal strokes, a rhythm was sought. Cycling leverages different muscle groups than running, my habitual form of cardio. I know I have to ease in slowly. I stuck to side streets and began to relax. It was a beautiful day, the sort of spring perfection we’ve been denied until recently. I think we can finally put our winter coats away?

I also eased back into something else I’d forgotten I’d missed – traveling by life happening at medium speed. In the span of a short 10-block ride I saw: a woman briskly pushing a cat in a baby carriage, a middle aged man absolutely blasting the Scorpions “Winds of Change” out of the windows of his worn Toyota Corolla, beautifully dressed people streaming from a community church. Sunday in the city. I missed viewing the world from the bike seat.

The second act of my relationship with L’il Red reflects a revised 2014 approach to life in general. A little more cautious, a little more in the moment, but also a little less frenzied. What’s the hurry?

Whack-a-Molar (May 9, 2014)

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During the summer of 1984, at six years old, I experienced a second life-changing event that would forever alter the course of my personal history. The first such moment arrived in August 1980 with the birth of my younger sister Jennifer, a gift that felt very much mine, then as now. I took immediate responsibility for the baby, though I was barely two years old, pushing her stroller and introducing her to folks as “MY sister Jennifer.” Without conscious awareness, I established a dynamic that persisted more or less until Jenny met and married her wonderful husband: “When (other kids/our parents/the world) hurt and fail you, you’ve got me. I’ll do anything I can to make it better.”

This second transformative event was of a more tragic variety. The summer morning started simply enough: Jenny and I bumming around our grandparents apartment in the Ravenswood neighborhood of Chicago, watching Sesame Street. Grover and some of the other puppets appeared in a segment called “Let’s All Exercise,” a worthy piece of child propaganda responding to the early 1980s home fitness craze and its ambassadors such as Richard Simmons and Jane Fonda. As you can tell from the hyperlink, I found an upload of this bit on YouTube. I watched just enough of it to ascertain that it was the segment I sought, but I couldn’t bear to sit through the whole thing.

For it was during this bit that Jenny and I began to jump around the living room boisterously, as kids of six and four need little encouragement to do. Before the end of the two minute, 20 second clip, there was an accident that left me face first in the living room radiator. Quite immediately, I lost several teeth. There was a lot of blood. There was crying. But mostly, there was pain and shock.

At the time of the incident, I had but one adult tooth and it was spared. However, several baby teeth were gone and the impact of the fall dislodged many others in the ensuing months. Most of the adult teeth that were to replace them were a long time coming, and when they arrived, they often did so unanchored by neighbors. The result was a irregular mess that followed me throughout grade school, high school, college and most of my 20s.

I’ve not-so-subtly written about the neglectful parentage experienced by Jenny and I, and so it was at the age of 25, I found myself with four impacted, rotting wisdom teeth, a wildly disjointed set of chompers and a huge dearth of self-esteem. By that point, my teeth had been a subject of peer torture and private shame for nearly two decades. I ran from cameras. I covered my mouth when I laughed. I avoided any situation, even ones in which I very much wanted to participate, where I would be judged by my appearance. I knew how I looked.

Now an adult with my own job, and more importantly, my own dental and orthodontic insurance, the wisdom teeth, a general health ticking time bomb, were removed. For the next two years, I had cavities filled, deep cleanings and started paying more attention to my oral health in general. Finally at the age of 29, I broke down in tears as another transformative event occurred: braces. I was de-bonded in January on 2010 at the age of 31, literally a new woman. One who could stand to look in the mirror for the first time in 25 years.

Throughout the long-running oral health misery that consumed my youth, I had but one variable of pride: those adult teeth may have grown in askew, but they were all mine. I’d never had one pulled (many who receive orthodontic care lose a tooth or two to make space for the others), a root canal, a bridge, crown – you get the idea. Before the braces were put on, my long-time dentist was fond of saying, “Honey, you have beautiful teeth. They’re just so crowded.”

It took a couple years to break old habits. Reflexively a hand would fly to my mouth when I laughed or smiled, though it was no longer necessary. I had to retrain my brain to comprehend that it was quite alright to show my pearly whites at picture time. It was a new world and I was loving it. I was me again, a grown version of the self-confident little girl I’d left planted in a radiator.

Early last week on a quiet Tuesday night, I was sitting upright in my bed, watching TV and snacking on some frozen almonds. I bit into one awkwardly and heard a sickening crack that, although painless, could not have been the crunching of the nut. I spit into my hand and alongside the shards of almond that emerged lay a big old piece of tooth, rear molar to be more precise.

I made an immediate call to my dentist and am in possession of solid insurance coverage. While certainly foolish and annoying (Whose idea was it to freeze those almonds anyway?), anyone else might have been cool. As I said, there was no physical pain. Instead however, a palpable physical dread set in. There were tears and the first words that came to mind, “Here we go again.”

The splintered molar of 2014 had very little in common with the dental debacle of 30 years prior. I’m an adult now, capable of arranging care and figuring out how to pay for it. $350 and two hours later, I’m wearing a temporary crown. The permanent porcelain one will be placed next week. Not a huge deal in the grand scheme. Yet there I was in Dr. Shahin’s chair, reading the loss of that tooth as both a personal failing and a harbinger of things to come. I’m only going to get older. More teeth may be replaced. The brief four-year run with perfectly straight, original adult ivories was over. I was angry and sad to an unexpected degree.

Then I realized that it was not 35 year-old Becky for whom I mourned. The delayed grief was for that helpless six year-old who experienced a quarter century’s worth of humiliation and torture because of one arbitrary, avoidable event. With a mouth half-dead from the effects of Novocaine, I said aloud, “A cracked almond is not a radiator.” I repeated it again, and again and again.

Juice Cleansing; A Skeptic’s Tale (April 21, 2014)

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I’ve written about my friendship with Jessica over the years. She one of my true life partners, a short list of special individuals that includes my younger sister Jennifer and a few others. Jessica and I were hardly immediate friends, but for the last 17 years, the distance of continents, obligations and even a pre-Facebook culture haven’t been enough to disrupt what has turned out to be one of the most important bonds of my life.

Jessica and I are alike in a lot of ways. We learn by trial and error and for most part, refuse to apologize for it. We’re passionate. We work, play and love hard. But we also have our differences and quirks that lead us to roll our eyes at one another.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jessica happier in her entire life than she was when I had an unprecedented emotional meltdown at Westminster Abbey in the summer of 2009. The breadth of literary history overwhelmed this lover of words and my best friend first ditched me out of sheer shame and humiliation, then redeemed herself by purchasing a history of English monarchs in the Abbey gift shop as a present. She expediently surrendered the newfound goodwill by snapping rapid-fire photos of my still-considerable state of euphoric distress as we exited the landmark.

Likewise I have often admired and questioned her laserlike devotion to holistic living. I thought it possible to be too healthy (i.e. rigid, high maintenance, not fun). Although Jessica has never been anything but a non-judgmental barrel of laughs, I secretly wondered what she thought of my wake up in the morning like P. Diddyness. Sure I exercise. I eat sushi. But I am a lazy grocery shopper and an even more indolent chef. I’ve never met a prepackaged meal, preservative or “cheese food” product I didn’t love deeply and repeatedly. When she’d tell me about a yoga retreat or a cleanse she had tried, I’d think to myself, “Good for her. Not sure I’d have the discipline. Don’t even want it.”

Until I had to have it. Earlier this year, Jessica and her business partner started Alchemix, a company which is, according to its website, “committed to providing 100% organic cold pressed juice, juice delivery, holistic nutritional education and yoga to those interested in achieving optimal health.”

A couple weeks ago, while returning from one gluttonous wedding in Iowa and preparing at fly away to another gluttonous celebration in a tropical paradise, Jessica called me to ask if I’d try her product. I hemmed. She said she’d give me a discounted 5-day cleanse in exchange for an honest blog post about the experience. I hawed. I really didn’t think I had the willpower and didn’t want to waste her efforts. She knew I had my suspicions that the whole concept of juicing was Millennial voodoo.

Did I mention that Jessica is adorable and loving? There’s a little devil living inside, the very best variety, but the face and the voice are petite and angelic. There’s also that she believes with all her soul in this stuff, and dammit I believe in her. So I said yes. How could I not? I love this woman and want her to succeed at everything that matters to her.

She arrived at my apartment with two heavy boxes in tow the morning after my return from Puerto Rico. They were filled with three days worth of product – six jars of juice per day of varying kinds (check the website for a full list). I was feeling dehydrated and after weeks of partying and overeating, shall we say, not fit? She was encouraging, assuring me I could do this (half suspecting I’d be shoving Twinkies in my mouth before she got her two year-old daughter back in the car seat) and that I’d feel better afterward. She didn’t sugar coat what the next five days would be like. She said I’d feel sick as I detoxified. She warned I might lack energy, that people grow tempted to quit. She’d love me either way but hoped I’d give the program a shot. That sort of acceptance is infuriating. It sucks the rebellion right out of you.

It was hard. On day two, I had a headache and a difficult time forming sentences. It is impossible to discount the fact that I’d also turned my exercise efforts up to 11 as a contributor, but in the moment, I was more than happy to blame the juice – and Jessica. Damn her for making me support this venture with my own suffering. She wanted a blog post did she? Well I’d give her a post. It would be titled: “Why I Hate Juicing and My Ex-Friend Jessica” (I mentioned that my creative resources were depleted). I made it through the rest of the day determined to throw in the towel. I’d done my best but I was a busy woman and couldn’t afford to feel crappy.

But the next morning, I looked at my hands. I looked at them closely. And I recalled that after applying twice a day for the better part of 11 months, I hadn’t used a topical steroid since Sunday evening, the night before I started the cleanse. There was no need. The hands that had been progressively turning into a giant cluster of pus-filled, burning pompholyx eczema blisters, were clearing up. How could this be?

I certainly wasn’t sorry to be on the receiving end of a small reprieve but I remained skeptical and vigilant. After all, I’d spent dozens of hours and thousands of dollars trying every doctor recommended therapy and manufactured pharmaceutical in a quest for relief. Not six weeks ago, I arrived at an Al-Anon meeting in tears, having just signed away the rest of my reproductive years in order to begin a risky, expensive drug regiment that might or might not yield any results. I was set to start the treatment this week.

On Thursday morning, my hands were a little less red. Dead skin was flaking off but the layer underneath looked…dare I say the word even to myself? Normalish. On Friday, I finished the cleanse, my 5th day of juice, water, raw vegetables, no caffeine or alcohol. The raw veggies were technically verboten but yes, I defied authority and ate a portion daily. I always confessed afterward, not that there was any need. Jessica already knew and was surprised by the relative restraint.

Co-workers complimented my clear eyes and skin. I felt less bloated. I could see it reflected in the mirror. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, it was my hands, the improved state of my poor, long-battered hands that completed the conversion from skeptic to true believer. I’ve run out of juice but the determination to make healthier choices, to distance myself from Starbucks, beloved red wine and Lean Cuisine in favor of raw kale and a bottle of beet liquid I couldn’t stand to look at a week ago, has taken me by a force I never anticipated.

It’s Monday, three days after the end of the cleanse. I have left the coffee, wine and preservatives alone and am consistently trying to eat the freshest food I can find. My left hand appears almost normal while the right is a few days behind it. Will the magic last? Because my resolve to change life permanently is unshakeable if indeed my best friend and her suddenly not so quirky holistic prescriptions are the solution for which I’d nearly stopped looking.

I’ve known for 17 years that Jessica was a late blooming genius who would find her niche. I just didn’t expect that when she founded Alchemix, she’d be offering me a lifeline in the bargain.

My Heart’s Devotion (April 17, 2014)

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I’ve never been able to envision myself as an old woman. And when one lacks imagination, it helps to have a little darkness and dry wit in your arsenal. My brew was particularly potent as a tween, 13 years old specifically – mature enough to understand that my family was dysfunctional to the point of dangerous, but too young and hapless to do much of anything about it.

I remember talking to my oldest friend Bob during one of our marathon phone sessions. At one point I lowered my voice to what I assumed was a very serious sounding whisper and shared, “I’m not meant for a long life Bob. I can’t see myself making it past 20.” At the time this sounded tragic yet sensible to my ears. Age 20 was seven years away, a veritable lifetime. Hell, seven years prior to uttering the dire warning to my confidante, I had been six years old, jealous to the point of pain of the other kids playing Bozo’s Grand Prize Game on TV. A lot can change in seven years and at 13, I was convinced I was the tortured, poetic heir apparent to John Keats.

So obviously I’ve made it a bit father than 20. I’ve accrued two degrees, loved and lost, developed a career I treasure and surrounded myself with a family comprised of blood and the most wacky, brilliant and loyal friends a person could wish into reality. I’ve had enough experiences across the spectrum by the age of 35 to produce what would make, if I may be so boastful, a fine mini-series or Lifetime movie. It hasn’t been easy. The road has been paved with the 3 D’s of misery: disease, death and divorce. But on the whole, I have few regrets. I like who I am and am more comfortable in my skin than ever before. I am proud of the life I’m building.

And maybe it’s because I’m on more solid footing with myself, accepting of singlehood and an autoimmune disease with the wisdom of one who knows how much worse it could be, that I’m starting to wonder about my older version. What does she look like? What are her beliefs and values? How does she compare with the person who wakes up each morning in 2014? Because if I am growing incrementally more secure with me and my world each month, I want to be there to see the end result, even if the mechanical parts don’t work as well as they did in 1992. It’s a shame that the Becky of 13 looked at the days and years ahead as something to be endured. The weight of the present leaving her unable to envision surviving to an age when her body might fail as profoundly as her luck in the parental lottery.

For so many blessed even if they hurt reasons, I’ve shed fear. I no longer assess situations for their potential to harm. I view them instead through the prism of potential laughter, euphoria or at the very least, a good happy hour story. As if I were already that elderly woman I once couldn’t imagine, I know that the regrets I’ll have, if any, will be for the things I never tried.

And so it was I found myself on the island of Vieques in Puerto Rico last week, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. For the first time I thought about retirement and that I might like to do so there. I also understood finally why people toss it all in favor of a quieter, more natural life.

I love Chicago with all its frenzy. In many ways, the city has served as the external mirror to my soul’s historical torrent. It will be my home as long as I have health, career, family and friends to keep me here. But there may come a day when that changes. I know not what my financial situation might be, but perhaps I can rent a run-down little house near the beach, buy myself some Wi-Fi access and a kayak.

There were stretches of last week when I had no idea what time it was, and I didn’t need one. I like the version of me that emerged apart from the slick-ponytailed, frenzied denizen of a concrete jungle who doesn’t know what to do with unstructured hours. I was the barefoot adventurer, the lover of natural beauty with untamed curls a complete lack of self-consciousness. I want to go back to the island, get to know that person a little better, maybe even grow old with her.

The point is I’m starting to see it.