Author: Becky Sarwate

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.

Band of Brothers (March 30, 2014)

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It was several minutes after the three of them, dressed in matching Iowa Hawkeye “bibs,” took to honking the horn and chanting “Big Ten Champs!” on loop as we cruised the highway, that I really regretted coming on the trip. I hated long car journeys to begin with, and the obnoxious testosterone overload I was currently experiencing in G’s “classic” (rickety) station wagon was churning along with the Dramamine in my stomach to create a most vile sensation.

Goodnaturedly on that March afternoon in 2001, I’d agreed to grab a bite with the boys at a sports bar in Anytown, Midwest, somewhere along our route from Evanston, IL to Hilton Head, SC via Columbus, OH, where the lads knew some other college pals. As we drank beer and consumed unhealthy pub fare, the Hawkeyes faced off against my alma mater, the University of Illinois and its Fighting Illini, during the final game of the Big Ten Tournament. It should have been an easy win for the Illini but the travel gods of confined spaces would not have its so, and it is in this post’s opening scene that we find our heroine (me) all but hating her life.

The roughly 10-day jaunt, punctuated by a return stop in Cleveland to check out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, came at a critical phase in my then 22 year-old existence. Pre-9/11, I was excited about my first ever professional promotion: the opportunity to get out of the travel agency call center and sample corporate communications. It’s no coincidence that I’m a busy and successful manager in that field today. Fresh out of college, happily employed and not yet touched by the reality of terrorism in the 21st Century, a vision of uninterrupted young American exceptionalism was unconsciously entrenched. I’d not yet been laid off and unable to find another position in the field (as I would be six months later). I was still able to believe that my hard work and ambition would always be enough.

G and I had been dating for about five months, and even before I’d agreed to this sausage fest of a journey, we both had suspicions that the relationship had run its course. I was dragging my feet about saying the words because it was already kind of hard to imagine life without him. I didn’t yet comprehend that the friend who might not be “the one” could outlast your two failed marriages, career and health challenges and everything else life can throw, to become family. I didn’t have the experience or the maturity to consider it possible.

And I absolutely didn’t understand that the adventures I’d have with G and the boys, including being kicked off an Ohio dance floor with my gay partner for being too “NC-17,” are the stuff of which memory-filled laughter is made. That H and I would still be emailing vignettes years after G and I took a post-breakup hiatus from each other.

Next weekend for the first time in 12 years, I am going to get in a car and travel four hours to be in the same room with three of my favorite men. I’m G’s plus one at a wedding in Iowa. The other boys are going to be there, with the wives and families they’ve raised in tow. The alcohol consumption may be lighter. The hijinks and hilarity might conclude somewhat earlier. But my awareness and appreciation have never been more acute. These dudes I thought I might just back over with the station wagon more than a decade ago loved me before I lost weight, ditched the co-dependent monogamy and figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I can’t wait to hug them just before the eye rolling starts.

I remain grateful that wedding dress code prohibits the damned Hawkeye bibs.

Tilting at Windmills (February 27, 2014)

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It’s been awhile since I wrote about the struggle to find some relief from an extreme, medical science confounding case of pompholyx eczema. Also known as dyshidrotic eczema, the condition is a really unfortunate autoimmune disease that manifests itself in swollen, pus-filled blisters that eventually consume the hands and bottoms of feet entirely. The blisters burn and itch, and after beating back a flare-up to a certain degree with topical steroids, patients are treated to peeling, cracking, flaky skin that is a magnet for infection. It’s unsightly, painful and makes many basic tasks challenging (washing dishes, exercise, writing) or outright impossible (swimming in pools, encounters with chemical cleaners or metal objects). Have a look at some really disturbing Google images to get an idea of where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going. As yet my feet have been spared and I’d offer that the second picture from the left on the top row is where my hands stand today.

Most people afflicted with pompholyx experience acute symptoms that last for up to a month followed by brief periods of reprieve. I am approaching 10 months of continuous outbreak. I have spent most of the last year alternating between two weeks of steroid application, followed by two weeks of prescription-strength lotion to mitigate the cracking and peeling. Repeat ad nauseum. There are no definitive conclusions regarding the long-term use of topical steroids, but every doctor agrees it’s not a great idea. In addition to irreversibly thinning the skin on which they are applied, a steady flow of the chemicals are entering my blood stream. There are plenty of cautionary tales about how this affects the body from the sports world. Also, in the short term, steroids inhibit the skin’s ability to fight off bacterial or fungal infections. I am basically an immune system crash waiting to happen.

It is for these reasons that there are a number of other treatments dermatologists will recommend in extreme cases. The goal is to give the hands and body a break for however long that lasts, because pompholyx has no known cure. These treatments however offer no guarantee of success, and usually carry risky potential side effects of their own. For 12 weeks, I ingested progressively stronger doses of Methotrexate, a medication traditionally given to cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy. Its purpose is to try to suppress an overactive immune system, which is the biological root of my problem.

Methotrexate is taken once a week and among other detriments, it strains the liver and kidneys and significantly increases the risk of general illness or infection. In rarer cases (not mine fortunately), the drug also causes hallucinations. I emerged from the treatment none the worse off for having tried it, but none the better either. My condition remained impervious to the intervention. And even with the benefits of “good” insurance coverage, the experience flushed several hundred dollars down the drain.

More recently, my wonderful doctor (and she really is – all empathy, knowledge and urgency) recommended we try a course of UVB therapy. This has proven to help a significant percentage of people like me so there was every reason for hope, except I observed anecdotally that my flare-up was more extreme in the summer months than it has been throughout the winter. Another upside down state of affairs that seems unique to me. But it couldn’t hurt to try given the desperation. Six sessions was going to cost me $1800 out of pocket (thank you insurance deductibles) until my doctor offered me a sweetheart discount. Another $240 from my bank account spent on hope.

Well I think you know what happened next. My hands exploded. Yep, the rays of the sun are another huge trigger for me, a quirk that sets me apart from the rest of a small crowd of pompholyx sufferers. I had breakouts in areas never before afflicted, and already beleaguered skin swelled and pussed more extremely. Agony. Treatment was stopped and I was prescribed a super steroid (double the strength of its legacy cousin) just to bring me back to where I was before UVB.

I have a lot of feelings about all of this, not all of them entirely clear. There’s a good deal of fear and uncertainty in the mix. I am kind of out of options at this point, and it seems a life of steroids while I watch my appendages slowly decompose is a prospect with which I must come to terms.

When I read Harold Ramis’ obituary this week and saw that he passed from artery swelling, a complication stemming from an autoimmune disease, I blanched.

How can one ever really accept watching once beautiful, smooth hands, the extensions of the body that allow work, touch, feeling and expression (I am an Italian. There’s no talking without hands), atrophy? Forget the physical pain, the drain of my funds and the frustration of endless, ultimately pointless doctor visits and treatments. I am a doer, a solver. Yet here my only remaining role is that of a bystander, slowly defeated by my own body. I am learning in Al-Anon how to detach with love from the people and things I cannot control, in order to preserve my own sanity. Difficult enough to apply and practice with external influences. Much more challenging when the object from which you must detach is the self.

The Hunt for a Higher Power (February 18, 2014)

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Just like the Alcoholics Anonymous program that led to the formation of its sister groups, Al-Anon and Alateen involve the working of 12 steps that will guide participants along the path of recovery.

I’m all over Step 1: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [and other addictions]—that our lives had become unmanageable.” I am more than ready to seek help, look for new tools and develop solutions for the codependent mess that my personal life has become over the decades. No more enabling, covering, fixing, lying and trying to control the broken dynamics that have existed between myself and those who struggle with addictions and impulse control problems. I can retain a fondness for these people and their good qualities without driving myself insane, or depriving them of an opportunity to experience personal growth and responsibility…or not.

Let go of resentment, detach with love, accept the things that I cannot change. All challenging concepts but fundamental to breaking with unhealthy patterns of the past and opening up vistas of possibility. I came to terms with Step 1 before I ever set foot into a meeting room. An understanding of the limitations of my historical coping strategies is what brought me to Al-Anon in the first place.

I’m only a couple months into the early stages of recovery. Like any program that depends upon consistency, commitment and human struggle, there’s no prescription for how long the process could and should take. Accepting the unknowable is part of learning to relinquish control. But I am really stuck on a concept that I need to work through if I am to continue to grow and change in the program. Take a look at Steps 2 and 3:

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”

Here’s the rub. I am a resolute atheist. Though I have folks I love and respect within my circle who ascribe to a variety of faiths and practices, the idea of God is not for me. I am not militant about it, nor am I lacking in experience, having been confirmed as a Lutheran in eighth grade before studying and converting to Hinduism for the expedience of marriage in my late 20s. It’s more that a combination of soul searching, critical thinking and experience led me away from the teachings of all organized religions. Some might offer that this renders me an agnostic more than anything, but I refuse to indulge my own temptation to hedge bets. There are definitely forces of nature and the universe at work that I don’t understand, but I can’t get behind the idea of an omniscient/omnipresent being without some scientific evidence. It’s not the way I’m built.

I don’t begrudge the faithful anything. In fact, I’m often envious of the security and peace of mind that comes with the conviction that you are part of a grand design, a purpose. The storyteller in me also finds something attractive about the idea of humanity as part of a larger narrative over which we’ve no jurisdiction.

Perhaps I’d struggle less with these philosophical ideas if I’d been afforded the luxury of trusting the adults who were supposed to be raise me. But I never regarded my father as a superhero or my mother as a selfless caretaker. I understood at an early age that the road up and out ran through me – the very opposite of turning my life and will over to a Higher Power. It had to be “I.” The cavalry was not coming.

I’m decidedly lacking in answers and that’s ok. I’m more comfortable with my innate cluelessness than at any previous stage of life. If I knew it all, I wouldn’t be reading this lopsided version of my story to date: achievement-focused with empowering friendships and collegial give and take on one end, competing with a heavy load of self-inflicted martyrdom on the other. As one group member said a couple of weeks ago, those of us working the Al-Anon program have been guilty of “trying to buy bread at the hardware store” – a metaphor for demanding and expecting the impossible from loved ones battling illness.

But in order to retain a sponsor, work through the coming steps and really, truly foment a revolution, something fundamental has to break. I can recite the Serenity Prayer without the word “God” at the beginning. No one in group is judging me for a lack of religious faith, but I have to come up with my own definition of a “Higher Power,” that idea that allows me to turn over my will and my life, something I admire and respect as bigger than me. My therapist has offered that perhaps the very idea of community is the answer, as compared with the fruitless commitment of years past to go it alone. It’s a thought – one amongst so many competitors.