I purchased a pair of $80 mitts today. It was a painful sum to spend, but Raynaud’s Disease has so affected my hands that the least chill puts my fingers at risk of turning a waxy, corpse-like yellow and losing sensation. There is no remedy so far as I have discovered, and, once they are chilled, no way to restore them without an outside heat source. At home, I hold them under warm water; in the woods, I use chemical hand warmers.
I am scheduled for arthroscopic surgery on February 6, to repair torn menisci in my left knee. The back of the knee looks—and feels—as if it has a golf ball protruding through the skin, and I experience shooting pains that threaten my ability to walk. I can still hike ten miles on fairly steep terrain, but, beyond that, I fear the joint will collapse.
I am finding it time consuming to get the weather report (on my weather radio) lately, as I have to first listen to a long list of the latest advisories. On the same day, they might include flood warnings, high surf warnings, winter storm warnings, debris flow warnings, and high wind warnings. The news is filled with scenes of rockslide-covered roads, and houses teetering on collapsing hillsides.
Poem 20 - Humans took her place Rural swamps dry or built on Refugee at home