Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
The young man was clutching the trash can. He was wildly intent upon it. I could not figure out if there was something inside that he wanted, or if he was about to hurl himself into it. A curious situation, but I simply walked past. The bus was due in two minutes, so I positioned myself a good eight feet away and tried to stay out of the way of the city employee who was whirring about on a lawn mower, tidying the small stretch of grass that bordered the sidewalk. I looked at my phone (because that’s what one does), and when I glanced back, the young man was sitting in the trash can as the mower whirled nearby. I still didn’t get it, because I so frequently do not get it, so I went back to my preoccupations, and when I turned to look once again, he had jumped off of the receptacle and was pulling his pants up over his bare bottom.
I watched as he made his way down the street with a purposeful stride. Hmmm. Well, at least he did it in the trash. That was thoughtful in its way.
Life in a big city can be… well… shitty.
It’s everywhere. Dog poop left by careless owners, bird poop because where else would it be? And in a city plagued with homelessness, one has to beware of the human variety as well. It gives a new and very specific meaning to the phrase, “Watch your step.”
WANDER ABOUT.
Still, I walk. Everywhere. A leisurely stroll down Third Street to meet Jeremy. A good long walk across Wilshire to hit the gym. Beverly Hills (I did not realize what the “Hills” part was referring to until I started walking there) offers views of stately homes and tree-lined streets. The flats are teeming with tourists, which makes for good people-watching and offers the challenge of trying to determine whose accent is from which country. Robertson Boulevard never ceases to fascinate me. I always see a small business or cafe that I never knew was there. No matter how many times I walk these streets, there is something new to discover.
I have always been a walker, but the act of it became very dear to me when for a time I could not take a step without excruciating pain. Looking back, it had been coming on for quite a few years. It started in the kitchen, where I could only use my beloved cast iron pans if someone was there to pick them up for me. My hands could no longer do so. The effort to open a jar or break apart a bag of chips was monumental and often hurt. There were signs.
The whole thing began in earnest when I was walking through the Atlanta airport on my way home from shooting a Christmas movie.
“Idiot!” I said to myself, because I am not always nice to me. “Why would you let them put you in heels when it was 20 degrees out? Probably snapped a bone in your toe or something stupid like that. Idiot! Ow! God dang it!!”
I made an appointment with a podiatrist. She examined my feet, which were not broken, and then suggested I see a rheumatologist. She said it casually, so I did not really think much about it. I was not even sure exactly what kind of doctor that was. I just went on limping and switching out footwear, trying to find a way to keep up my daily treks with my dog.
Then the hands went to hell in a handcart. Opening a door could suddenly send me reeling. Then they became covered with what looked like giant blisters, which I now know are called “scales.” My legs got in on the action and started sporting giant red patches of rash.
My GP was flummoxed. She had no idea what might be causing any of it, but because my skin was such a mess, we decided to start with a dermatologist. Her office called and got me an appointment for the next day.
“Let me see your fingernails… Oh yes, pitted,” he said upon examining them. “I’m afraid you’ve got a disease called Psoriatic Arthritis. I am sorry to tell you it’s a bad disease, a very bad disease.” He said this a few more times before I could escape his company. I never went back to that guy. He was so macabre about the situation that it sent my sister and me tearing through internet searches about the darned condition. When I told my father, a former hospital administrator, about it, he took a sharp breath and said:
“Oh, no, Bethy. Oh, no. I am so sorry to hear this.”
A PATH FORWARD.
I was entirely freaked out. Google showed photos of patients in wheelchairs with one toe or a finger completely black and engorged to six inches in length. Reports of folks going blind or becoming deaf abounded. People with PsA were frequently pictured with walkers and canes. I was scared, and I was also tired. The fatigue that accompanies what I now know is called a “flare” is epic. When I finally dragged myself out of bed in the morning, I would have to stand, holding the back of a nearby chair, until I could adjust to the pain long enough to go put on the coffee.
Not fun. No bueno. I was beginning to think that the drama queen dermatology doc might be right about the whole “bad disease” thing.
My GP made some more calls and finally got me an appointment with a rheumatology specialist. His demeanor was affable and non-alarming when he confirmed that I indeed had all of the signs of the disease. Later blood tests would reveal the markers for it, which are similar to the ones for lupus. He put me on a ‘Biologic’ medication. You’ve seen the ads for these and heard the disclaimers:
“Side effects may include heart failure, kidney disease, stomach ulcers...” The list goes on and on, basically warning that anything could happen. For all they know your head may fall off your neck, roll down the sidewalk, and be eaten by a cat, but they tell you to take this medicine. Because… it’s good for you?
Well, alrighty then. The stuff had to be administered via a shot in my abdomen every 28 days. That was also not so fun and took some getting used to, but the results were promising.
I got some of my natural energy back. I could stand more easily. My skin cleared up and I was able to stop pain meds entirely within a month. I got on with it. I headed to Kentucky to shoot a movie for Lifetime and was able to manage the long hours and requisite physical demands of the job.
I was not and never will be cured. I still cope with flares and have never been able to trace the cause of them. The good news is that now the pain is sharp and mostly short-lived, and I have a high tolerance for that. The silver lining to a background of physical abuse.
Let’s face it: There is something coming for all of us. Almost every one of my pals is living with some condition or another. I’ve lost several friends to actual “bad diseases,” terrible ones like ALS and MS. Folks are losing body parts and enduring round after round of Chemotherapy. I got this weird-assed condition, and I am good with that. Feel almost lucky.
Thank you, God, for giving me an illness I can handle. Thank you for the shot to the stomach! For the medical breakthroughs that are helping folks like me lead vibrant, healthy-ish lives. And, most importantly, thank you for letting me walk and walk and walk. At least for now.
In a Google search, the Theory of Dérive is described this way:
“In a dérive, one or more persons during a certain period drop their relations, their work and leisure activities, and all their other usual motives for movement and action and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.”
I plan to dérive myself silly. To move through this city that I both love and hate in awe of the diversity of experience it offers.
There is so much to see and do and learn.
Of late, I have noticed a preponderance of small shops offering something called an ACAI bowl. I guess it’s meant to be a healthy treat. It looks like a big bowl of ice cream that is not ice cream but kind of is, topped with fruit and sauce. Healthy or no, there must be something to it, or why so many offerings? I will have to try it sometime. Why-ever not?
On we go …
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Hi Beth
I thought of you last night when I saw your name for a 2019 Hallmark movie. I hit the frndly string service because the package included Skme favorite channels! Of course by the time I reset my pw, used the 6 digit code etc I. oukdvy find the movie! zillow find it!
This post is a reminder of perspective and perseverance. Thank you for the reminder! 💕🙂
Amazing as always and even so more personal to me as my own darling mom has had psoriatic arthritis since she was 38. I’m so grateful for the biological drugs we have now considering how long she had to be on prednisone. She won’t let it slow her down despite the fact she constantly in pain and still works 50 hours a week as nurse. Truly keeping on and carrying on