My hands are cold. My formaldehyde-dipped fingertips are glowing. You know, like E.T., but I’m not phoning home and it’s not just my index finger, it’s all my fingers (and my toes too). The prairie chill tonight has turned them yellow. I say they are formaldehyde-dipped because they look dead to me, but I suppose that can’t be true since dead things couldn’t possibly hurt this much. Raynaud’s Disease is more than just having cold hands and feet and it’s different than frostbite. Smaller arteries that supply blood to your skin narrow, limiting blood circulation to affected areas, causing blood vessel spasms. Most people with Lupus have Raynaud’s.
Now wasn’t that educational?
I read about this girl who was rummaging around in her bag, her fingers were so numb from Raynaud’s, she didn’t notice that she was slicing them up against a sharp object inside. Apparently she was sitting happily for quite some time, not noticing the blood that was trickling down her hand onto the floor. Lovely. I don’t let many people see my yellow fingers, but the few who have instantly take my hands and try to rub them back to life or run them under hot water. NO. This hurts. A LOT. The only way to warm up a Raynaud’s sufferers hands is to use body heat. Put them in your armpits. Okay, YOU don’t have put them in your armpits, but I do. Or, when I am in public, against my neck or palms up against my skin inside my sleeves. I must clarify that I have never put my hands in someone else’s armpits for warming purposes. That’s an entirely new and strange level of intimacy for just about anyone, I’d think. Usually, I just hide it and deal with it on my own, so I suppose the offer of an armpit would be quite sweet considering the circumstances… although still very strange.
Perhaps after all this armpit talk, you are wondering if I actually went to the gym the day after my last post. I did. There is something to be said for proclaiming things on the internet. I went tonight too.
I’ve never been strong on the outside. As much as I would like to think it, I would not be able to kick anyone’s ass. Metaphorically? Yes, of course, but physically? Sadly, no. So, I am building strength. My body is raising it’s eyebrow at me though. It seems a little ruffled at the fact that I would go from spending the last few months shuffling slo-mo in my pjs to suddenly moving, actually MOVING (in lycra no less). My body is soft and spoiled, stressed and toxic. It’s fighting me. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always Elena vs. Elena, in some way or another. I’ve put down my bet in the form of a three month gym pass.
Let’s see if I can kick my own ass.