So, my hands.
In the past few years, I’ve tended to buy the lightest cookware and dishware because the heavy ones hurt my hands. Last Christmas my daughter-in-law, bless her heart, gave me the most beautiful cast iron dutch oven cookpot, ruby red.
It looks lovely on my countertop.
Someone, don’t know who, left a clear plastic drinking glass in my kitchen. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it was made out of sheer sparkling glass. I hefted it, it weighed nothing. I went out and bought some.
One day at one of my favorite shopping haunts (Target), I ran into a back-to-the-dorm sale of cheap dishes. I lifted the bowls. Again, nothing. I bought eight. My ceramic bowls are now backbenchers. Nice to serve in, but not to hold up and eat from.
So as time went on, I made allowances for my hands. After all, I’d say, you’re not getting any younger. RA is not gonna disappear. Osteoarthritis is gonna get you, each day a little more. Can’t let it get you down. Gotta go with the flow.
But now, weight doesn’t matter because nowadays I can’t touch anything. I have what the dermatologist calls “a problem with no solution.” My fingertips split (fissures) and bleed. For no reason that we can determine. I don’t think he even gave me a diagnosis. I meant to ask, but forgot. I guess he’d already named it.
It’s nothing new. This has been happening off and on for a long time. Twenty years ago, that dermatologist told me to stay away from soap and hot water. Right! I was working in an ICU and had young children. My hands were always being washed, gloved, scrubbed, and alcohol-rinsed.
Then I transferred to a desk job. Then my children grew up and left home. Then RA got worse before it got better, before I quit work. Or as I believe, it got better because I quit. And then my hands got lots better; the scourge mostly disappeared for years and years. If my skin broke down, it recovered within a few days. And then, wham!
About three months ago, my affliction returned. Perversely. Persistently. Stubbornly. Tenaciously.
It’s been three months now of pain and suffering. As I told my doctors, it’s almost disabling. And so depressing. Most days I can’t type. I can’t sew. At times, I can’t exert pressure on anything that I hold or the skin on my fingertips will either split or shred. (Sorry for the imagery.)
It’s like death by a thousand paper cuts. Feels like it too. We have so many sensory receptors in our fingertips. It’s what makes touch so thrilling, or so distasteful, depending.
I’ve tried everything in the book. Every cream. Every ointment. Every prayer. I even bought a box of exam gloves, just like the ones I used at work. Back then I considered them a culprit. Now I consider them a protective framework to hold my skin together.
I hit upon an answer by accident. One of my RA treatment modalities is to do a Prednisone hit whenever something physically taxing is on the calendar. I was going to have all my kids (4) and all my grandkids (4) in the house for a week. So I started Prednisone on day 1. And by day 7, my fingers, bless the ground they all step on, were practically healed.
I had a dermatology appointment and his eyes lit up when he saw my hands spread out like a stop sign before him. “Don’t get too excited,” I said. “It’s not your ointment. It’s Prednisone.”
He slumped back down on the stool. “But you can’t be on that forever,” he said.
Truth. And since I was on weaning doses, my fingers broke down just in time for my rheumatology appointment one week later, this past Wednesday.
He agreed. We will do a Prednisone treatment, not prophylactically this time. But again weaning down, though on a more gradual descent, till we get to zero. And healthy fingers. I hope.
“I leave it to you,” he said, in regards to the pace of weaning.
“It’ll be like titrating drips at work,” I said.
He smiled as he tapped away on his laptop. And I smiled as I padded out the door.
It is so nice to hear from you, Irma! I hope everyone in your family is well!
I’m so sorry you’re suffering with your “affliction.” It sounds just awful, and I hope that the slow prednisone taper will allow your fingertips to heal and, perhaps, it will “turn off” this latest and worst-est flare up.
It made me smile to read your description of discovering and using lightweight plastic as servewear–I’ve been using it for years, and for the very same reason. I always feel a bit silly, though, even though it does solve the problem of handling heavier dishes, bowls, and glasses with tender hands. Glad I have a sister in the RA/OA war!
Be well. Sending a warm, gentle hug.
Hi, Wren. I hope you are doing well. All well on my end, thankfully so. Just this nasty little nuisance that comes and goes. When it appears, it’s the most annoying thing. You never think about how much your fingers do until they are taken out of commission. Yes, I am always on the hunt for pretty, but light, dishes. It’s almost like a scavenger hunt. Must defeat RA and OA in some ways! Take care.
Irma – so nice to hear from you and so sorry about the issues. Its always something. I reluctantly spent much of the first half of the year on that nasty prednisone, but finally am good. I hope your taper works and gives you some peace.