Author: Becky Sarwate

13 Cars (June 21, 2014)

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2014 began in acute pain: a broken heart handed to me by a long-time lover with demons; disintegrating, burning hands from the effects of pompholyx eczema. It was unimaginable that either condition could be brought into remission. I was a metaphorical and literal open wound.

Readers of this blog know what followed. I stumbled into an Al-Anon group to try to cope with the distorted and unmanageable nature of life, owing to unsuccessful efforts at controlling my former partner’s disease. It seems so obvious now, but I didn’t realize until fully immersed that I needed the group years before I loved an alcoholic. I was a habitual codependent. While my parents were neither drunks nor drug users, addictions of all types basically wear the same clothes.

Dovetailing with this form of cognitive and emotional healing, a dear friend inadvertently offered mitigation for the autoimmune disease that thousands of dollars and loads of harmful steroids and other drugs couldn’t provide. She asked me to try a bottle of cold pressed, raw, organic, dirt-flavored red beet juice. 20 ounces a day, everyday, since that first sip two months ago, and I’m nearly asymptomatic. Apparently miracles are not always delivered in flashy, explosive style. Sometimes they arrive in the guise of a root vegetable.

Six years ago, before the death of Jesika, before divorce and cancer, before the hard and enormously wrenching choices that put me on the path to the personal and professional satisfaction I enjoy at present, I darkened the doorway of Dr. T – my longterm therapist. My first words to her were something along the lines of, “Fix me before I lose everything.” Her initial response was some version of “I’ll work with you to figure things out if you’re ready, but you might lose some things. And maybe that’s ok, because maybe they’re not the right things.”

Scary words that left me with a huge decision: status quo or reinvention. I didn’t know much about myself at that time, but I was aware that I couldn’t continue on in the same way. I was exhausted. So I came back the following week, and the one after that. The first things we worked on: eye contact and graciously accepting praise.

The six years I’ve spent relearning to navigate the world with the help of Dr. T have not been marked by regular, linear progress. I think anyone who stood by me or suffered as a result of the Great Christmas Breakdown of 2011 will nod their head in agreement. Awakening and change have not come easy, as I suppose nothing worth the effort ever does.

However the inception of 2014 and the convention of the four horsewomen has unleashed a tidal wave. Bi-weekly therapy, Al-Anon, beet juice and a personal determination to break the unhealthy patterns that yielded repetitive relationship disasters. Last week while talking to Dr. T, I likened the experience to an unusual and dated pop culture sensation. I told her that I’d been procuring the right pieces for years, finally put them all together, and then like the great Evel Knievel, revved up the motorcycle engine. This year, I’ve come roaring back, and the personal growth leap I’ve taken feels like jumping that motorcycle over 13 cars. And I stuck the landing.

It’s kind of amazing to feel like you can do anything after decades of keeping yourself imprisoned. The people who were supposed to love and care for me as a child might have put me in the cage, but only by recognizing that I gradually became my own warden has the negotiation of freedom become possible. Serenity, courage and wisdom, nurtured one day a time, can produce death-defying feats.

Great Urban Racers (June 8, 2014)

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For the past decade, I’ve tried to entice certain members of the friend and family circle to audition for The Amazing Race with me. Repeated pleas were issued to those with whom I’d work best, with lesser (but still important) consideration given to teammates with the potential to give good TV. Initial enthusiasm runs high….but then a would-be partner encounters the actual application, a behemoth of a document that calls for more evidence and stamina than the state Bar exam, with a lower pass rate. At that point, the initial “Hell yeah! Let’s do this!” turns into a “Well, maybe later.”

In 2011, unable to tamp down competitive scavenger hunt urges any longer, Gary and I registered for the Chicago heat of the Great Urban Race. The event’s website describes the race as, “a fun and challenging puzzle where your city holds the pieces. Teams solve clues, tackle challenges and race for cash prizes in this all-out test of smarts and speed…hundreds of Masterminds take to the streets to complete a variety of exciting mental and physical challenges at unique stops throughout the city. Your team is free to choose your own route as you hustle from clue to clue on foot or by using public transportation.”

Yep, that’s about it. GUR has three major mental and physical components: a initial set of 12 clues and puzzles used to determine race destinations, quick instincts and research leveraged to create a course map, then speed and skills to execute, hopefully fast enough to finish in the Top 25. Teams in that elite bracket are invited to compete against the other top racers from that year’s host cities in a contest for the national championship. In 2014 qualifying heats occurred in: Los Angeles, San Diego, Austin, San Francisco, Tampa, Jacksonville, Houston, Washington DC, Atlanta, Portland, Philadelphia, Boston, New York City, Chicago and Toronto.

In 2011, at 32 years of age, Gary and I ran our first race and enjoyed some beginner’s luck. We finished 41st – respectable enough to whet our appetites for more. We saw that with improved running speed (from me) and a few other tinkers, we had the goods. 2012 would be our qualifying year! …Only it wasn’t – not by a long shot. A more challenging course, more teams and some key errors on our part resulted in a completion time nearly 45 minutes behind the previous one.

In 2013, an unnaturally chilly July day in Chicago, we fared much better, only to be undone near the end by The Clark Bus That Never Came. Team Monsters Are Real was getting older, wiser, and settling into its niche of near-miss tragedy.

Saturday, May 31, 2014 was about as perfect as one could ask: warm sunshine without humidity, not a cloud in the sky. One half of Monsters Are Real awoke that morning full of optimism. Not six weeks before, the deteriorating and painful state of my hands made the consideration of withdrawal a serious one. Gary deserved a real shot at achieving our mutual dream of qualifying for the finals, and I no longer believed I was the partner to help him get there. But that was all before the miracle of beet juice. I’d slept well and hydrated the night before and arrived at the GUR starting point, Lizzie McNeil’s, with a sense of performance promise. I shared as much with Gary, not that I had to. Over the course of 22 years of friendship, we’ve developed a seamless ability to read each other and collaborate without explication.

We ran a great race. There was more walking in certain parts (from me) than I would have liked and I’ll never love Kraft Singles again the way I did before. But once we completed our first task nearly 45 minutes into the competition, we checked them off fast and furiously until we crossed the finish line.

It was clear we’d done well. There were very few teams checked in, enjoying their free-for-racing bottles of Miller Lite. However, while Team Monsters Are Real is in possession of a collectively healthy ego, it stops short of delusion. At best we hoped to match our finish from 2011. Hundreds of groups of competitors kept expectations low. We didn’t even stick around for the award ceremony.

In hindsight, I don’t know what would have been more delicious: hearing live and sweaty that we’d finally done it, we’d cracked the Top 25, or the Jesse Pinkman “Yeah bitch!” moment I experienced in an office conference room the following Monday morning – in front of my new boss and a senior graphic designer. When Gary sent the text message that we’d reached our goal, the euphoria overtook any semblance of professional decorum.

This afternoon, we booked our trip to Vancouver. We fly from Chicago on August 8, the day of my 36th birthday. The GUR national championship kicks off the following morning at 9:00 am in the downtown area of the city nicknamed, “Vansterdam.” This has all the makings of a most triumphant birthday weekend, no matter where Monsters Are Real ultimately finishes. In the ensuing weeks, I’ll be working on my speed sprints while Gary and I research Vancouver’s public transit, major landmarks and streets.

Six weeks ago I couldn’t dance vigorously without cracking, bleeding, burning hands. Today I am planning a training schedule for a competitive Canadian adventure with one of the people I love most. I’ve already won.

Just Beet It (May 28, 2014)

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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.